Ma Soleil
by Taurus
Summary: AU. Set about sixteen years in the future. An old "friend" of Victor Creed's shows up for a visit at the commencement of his newest romantic affiliation. Original Character.
1. Coming Home

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter One: Coming Home  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask. X-Cell is my own invention, and it includes the members of the former Generation X (e.g. Husk, M, Skin, Jubilee, Chamber, Leech, and Artie Maddocks, now known as Vision) and is headed by Jubilation Lee and X-Man.   
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
For once in her life, Rebecca Starsmore-Creed was at a loss. She didn't know what to do, except stare her husband in the eye and tighten her insides for a brawl.  
  
"Hey, there, Becca." Victor Creed murmured, his low, sinuous voice sending shivers through the woman's gut.  
  
"Hey, Vic." She made sure to keep her voice even, calm. Pulling her apartment door closed, she locked it securely and tugged her coat off, hanging on a peg behind the door.  
  
"Haven't seen ya in a while, frail." Though his voice was casual, his movements were dangerously controlled, almost stiff.  
  
"I've been around. You could have if you'd have wished." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug.  
  
"But you know I didn't."  
  
"Of course not. You don't like head-muckers." She retorted, referring to her substantial psionic mutation, shoving both hands through her long hair.  
  
"Yeah. Ya know me better than I usually give ya credit for."  
  
"I've known you for over thirty years, after all."  
  
"That's right, darlin'." He managed a grin.  
  
"Don't call me that." She nearly snarled, losing for a moment her accustomed composure.  
  
He shoved a sheaf of papers into her hands.  
  
"What the fuck are these, Victor?"  
  
"Divorce papers. I don't wanna be married ta you anymore."  
  
"That's fine by me."  
  
"Good. Sign an' I'll get out o' yer hair."  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
"Ya don't need ta know."  
  
She asked, "Do you love her, Vic?"  
  
"I ain't discussin' this with you."  
  
"Why not? I deserve an explanation, don't you think?"  
  
"Not after the way you ran out on me."  
  
"And then nearly imploded your skull," she murmured complacently.  
  
"Don't give me that smile, Becca."  
  
"I will if I want. So, do you love her?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good. Here, all signed up and ready to go. Have a nice life, amante."  
  
"Don't call me that."  
  
"Of course." She gave him a spectral smile and took a few steps backward. She knew better than to turn her back on someone like him.  
  
"I ain't watchin' ya leave me again." The tone of his voice was very nearly resentful.  
  
"And why is that, Vic? I doubt it's because it's breaking your heart."  
  
"Damn straight. It's because the last two times ya've left me, ya hot-wired my bike. Ain't happenin' this time."  
  
"All right. You go first. I'll watch you leave just this once."  
  
"Ain't lettin' ya out o' my sight yet, girl."  
  
"I'm touched. Come on, Victor, we're adults here. Just because you've known me since I was what? Three? Four? I'm thirty-three now, ready to take control of my life."  
  
"Damn. Has it been that long? Ya walked out on me the first time when you were eighteen, right?" his scratched his skull, struggling to recollect the events of years long past.  
  
"Something like that. And when you came after me, you gave me this," she touched her bare leg, where a long strip of scar-tissue bubbled up from her skin.  
  
"That's right. An' the next time, ya were twenty-three. I marked ya mine that time."  
  
"Of course." She could never forget the V-shaped scar inscribed on the top of her left shoulder.  
  
"Well, I'd better be going." He backed into the door.  
  
"Am I invited to the wedding?" her smile was wry, her tone mildly sarcastic.  
  
"There ain't no weddin'. We're just tagether yet."  
  
"I want to meet her." Her dainty brows drew together, just a little.  
  
"No."  
  
"I'll say I'm your cousin."  
  
"I ain't worried about her gettin' jealous. I'm worried about you tryin' ta take her out."  
  
"You're so modest. It's not like you're the love of my life, Vic. Don't worry about it. But that doesn't mean that I don't still care. I want to meet her."  
  
"Fine. Ya know the White Queen?"  
  
"Emma Frost?! You're not joking?"  
  
"Frost? No way! I wouldn't get anywhere near a bitch like that. An' rumor says that she ain't as good in bed as she pretends, either. No, she used ta run a school in the Berkshires."  
  
"Xavier's. I thought you were through with that lot."  
  
"I was. An' then I met Monet St. Croix."  
  
"Wait. I know her. She works with my brother, Jonothon."  
  
"Yes, she does."  
  
"That's silly. She's a bitch, and she's in love with a man named Everett."  
  
"Was."  
  
"Everett's dead? They couldn't have broken up!" she insisted, stepping toward the door and unlocking it quickly.  
  
"Seriously, Beck, when was the last time ya caught up with yer brother?"  
  
"A couple years." She sniffed indifferently, backing away from the door, giving him ample room to leave.  
  
"Sixteen years, Beck." His voice was a paragon of gravity.  
  
"That is untrue!"  
  
"No, it ain't."  
  
"Fine. It isn't. I haven't seen my brother since I was seventeen, but why is that an issue?" she frowned more deeply this time, scrubbing a hand across her face.  
  
"Because Monet's a fine frail, an' I love her, an' we're gonna live tagether."  
  
"I never thought she'd stoop so far."  
  
"As far as I remember you weren't too unhappy 'stooping' either."  
  
"No, I mean that she's. . .stuck up. That's all."  
  
"Oh. Yeah, she's gotten over that."  
  
"You have a thing for women who can mind-fuck, don't you?"   
  
"Oh, yeah. That's the only thing I like 'bout 'paths."  
  
"She's not that much better than me, is she?" her voice dropped suggestively.  
  
"Nope, not at all."  
  
"Wow. Then you do love her."  
  
"Why the hell would I give you up if I didn't?"  
  
"What was that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Nothin'. It's just that…yer well-known in the merc world as a hot commodity."  
  
"Am I, then?"  
  
"Yeah. The fact that yer gettin' old ain't never entered the picture."  
  
"That's good. Now, off with you. I'll be up to New York in a month."  
  
"Ya promise?"  
  
"Of course I do. As long as you can restrain yourself from ripping your brother's head off for that long?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Oh, yes. I saw Natty a couple weeks ago. . ."  
  
"How can ya call him that? He's Sinister, fer cryin' out loud!"  
  
"He raised me, Vic. Would you prefer that I call him father? Anyhow, I saw him a few weeks ago and he said he'd tested positive for you and Wolverine being related, and it's almost certain that you share at least one parent."  
  
"That so?"  
  
She nodded triumphantly.  
  
"That'll get a rise out o' the runt. Hey, Beck?"  
  
"Yes, Victor?"  
  
"Ya promise ta come?"  
  
"Yes. I promise. And you know that as long as it isn't wedding-vows, my promises are good."  
  
"I know. Hey, ya didn't sleep with Ritzy, did ya?"  
  
"Ritz Spencer? Most certainly not. Did he say I had?"  
  
"Yeah. He's been braggin' about it fer a while, sayin' he had proof."  
  
"Spencer is insane. If you'd like to do me a favor, you could maim him for lying."  
  
"I'd like that, darlin'."  
  
"Oh, and Vic?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Don't call me that."  
  
"Sure thing, darlin'." He shot her one last grin before backing out of the door and disappearing down the hall.   
  
XXX  
  
"I don't want to see her!" the stunning woman in a white silk negligee pouted at Victor Creed.  
  
"Monet. . ."  
  
"Don't 'Monet' me, Creed!" she hissed.  
  
"Quit callin' me that, beautiful. . ."  
  
"No!"  
  
"She's just hoppin' over ta see her brother, an' I'll give her a copy of the divorce papers when she comes. You ain't gonna deprive Sparks o' his family, are ya?"  
  
"Victor, it's just that…you were married to this woman, and for twelve years! One does not forget half a lifetime in a few months with another!"  
  
"So what if we were married fer that long! I mean. . .she was only there about half the time. One month I'd see her, then she'd come back, stay a week, leave, come back. . .that wasn't a marriage, beautiful, it wasn't even a relationship."  
  
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."  
  
"But I'm with you. Don't ya think I'd be with her if I wanted her?"  
  
"She's practically immortal, Victor, much like yourself. I am not. I will grow old. My hair will turn gray. My complexion will deteriorate. I will not be your 'beautiful' forever!"  
  
"I don't want beautiful. I want whatever you can give me!"  
  
"When will she arrive?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"When will she arrive?"  
  
"Tomorrow. 'Bout noonish."  
  
"No, she's going to drive in at sunset."  
  
Victor's eyes snapped up to his girlfriend's. "How did ya know that?"  
  
"She never arrives anywhere until sunset."  
  
"Yeah, but how did ya know that?"  
  
"Because she just. . .doesn't. I speak from experience, from back when she used to visit Jonothon regularly."  
  
"Yer still worried we might have feelin's fer each other, M?"  
  
"Yes, I am."  
  
"Fine. I'll tell ya what happened when I went ta see her, then."  
  
"To get the papers signed?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I got inta her apartment early, cause the only time she's off guard is when she's just comin' in. The second she shuts a door she's hyped. So I broke in early, cornered her before she locked up. Handed her the papers easy as ya please, an' she asked me what the hell they were. So I told her. I said, 'I don't want ta be with you anymore.' An' she said, 'Fine by me. Who's she?'"  
  
"Who's who?"  
  
"You. The girl I was dumpin' her for."  
  
"Why would you remain in wedlock with a woman you knew undid her oaths to you regularly?" a single ebony brow slid up.  
  
"Beautiful, Beck ain't like that. Fer all her bluster an' charm, she don't get laid that often. That's why everyone says they've done her. She don't say nothin' about it, an' everyone's happy. Now me, if I heard somethin' like that back in the day, I'd track the man down an' ask him about it. If he bragged about it, I'd smell whether he was tellin' the truth, an' if he was, I'd castrate him an' tear his guts out."  
  
"And if he wasn't?"  
  
"Jus' castrate him."  
  
"Oh. So much better."  
  
"Nah, not really." His giant, bowed shoulders lifted, dropped.  
  
"Victor?" Monet's eyes sought his, caught them, held them.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"How come you've never. . .mentioned marriage?"  
  
"I thought ya said ya weren't interested in a serious commitment yet."  
  
"You got divorced for me, Victor. That sounds pretty serious."  
  
"Monet. . .do ya want ta get married? I mean, ya said ya didn't because all it meant ta most women was a ring an' a party, but you weren't like that. 'S what ya said, an' I believed ya."  
  
"When did I say that?"  
  
"Our unofficial first date."  
  
"What? I didn't say that on our first date!"  
  
"Nah, not the one in Spain. The one in the burnin' buildin', when I dragged yer sweet little ass out o' the fire."  
  
"The one where I. . .kissed you?"  
  
"Yeah. Although 'kissed' is a bit of a strong word fer stickin' yer tongue down my throat durin' mouth-ta-mouth resuscitation." Monet giggled at the smirk on Victor's face, and bent over to bite his lower lip. "Hey, darlin', that may work with other men, but I know the tricks of the trade."  
  
"Oh, yeah? Show me."  
  
XXX  
  
The sun was just sinking below the horizon, dying the underbellies of the clouds magnificent shades of fire-flecked ultramarine. The ice-blue Jaguar Convertible pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the Xavier Institute and screeched to a halt just in front of the walkway which led to the veranda. The young woman within opened her door and slid out in a single, sinuous motion. She was tall, just a few inches shy of six feet, and so slender and wiry that if she had wanted a career in modeling, she had it cut out for her. Her eyes were shaded by mirrored sunglasses, with dark green frames. Her long, sleek hair of spun gold was let down to flow around her white shoulders like a maelstrom tempest.  
  
She wore a long, dark brown leather duster over a forest green tube top and a pair of faded blue jeans. On her feet were brown stiletto-heeled boots, and she wore a silver belt slung around her narrow hips. Around her forehead, keeping her hair from her face was a strap of cotton the precise hue of the sky on a stormy day, tied around, with two tassels mingling with her hair.   
  
The moment she got to the door, there was someone there to open it for her. Her smile was, surprisingly enough, genuine. "Hello, Sam."  
  
"Welcome home, Soleil." Sam Guthrie's warm, lopsided grin and familiar Kentucky drawl immediately stimulated feelings of safety.  
  
"Not home, Sam. I'm just here to visit."   
  
"Well, it's nahce ta see ya anyhow. Wanna come in?"  
  
"Sure." She stepped inside, and shed her duster into his strong hands. "So, is my brother home?"  
  
"Not rahght now, Ah'm afraid," when he smiled, there were pencil-thin lines at the corners of his eyes. Rebecca blinked, and shook her head. "What's wrong?"  
  
"It's just. . .you look so much more. . .mature. How old are you now, Sammy? I think I missed your last birthday."  
  
"Don'cha know that's a rude question tah ask after a body turns thirty?"  
  
"I'm asking anyhow," she pouted.  
  
He grinned. "Ah'm pushin' thirty-eight now. What do ya think?" he lifted his arms and gave her a flirty look.  
  
"I think. . ." she gave him a slow once-over, "that you've still got it."  
  
"Got what?"  
  
"That fresh-off-the-farm naïveté that gets you babes in the first place."  
  
"Now that's not fair!"  
  
"It is, Sammy, and you know it. So, how're things going with Sarah?"  
  
"Oh. . ." his face fell.  
  
"What?"  
  
"She's. . .she's goin' out with Gambit now."  
  
"Oh. I shouldn't have asked."  
  
"Well, they'ah on an off month, but they'll get back tagethah, Ah know. Ah'm a free agent now."  
  
"All right. Sounds good."  
  
"It is. Come on, everyone's in the livin' room, watchin' the film of Bobby's latest prankscapade."  
  
"Oh, my God! More prankscapades! I hope you haven't told him where my bed is, otherwise I think I'll find a layer of mustard on my mattress."  
  
"No, Ah don't think he knows. . ."  
  
"Soleil Étoile! Mein Gott!" a puff of magenta smoke and the heady, distinctly unpleasant scent of brimstone filled the air.  
  
"Hey, Kurt."  
  
The indigo-furred mutant grabbed her around the waist and twirled her around. "You look as beautiful as ever!"  
  
"Thank you, and may I say, that the hair is very sexy? I love the goatee, too." She tugged on it lightly, and threaded her fingers through his curly, shoulder-length hair.  
  
"Thank you, liebling." He grinned, displaying his ivory fangs, and accepting the quick peck on the mouth the young woman offered him. "I am afraid, however, that I am going gray."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Yes, you see, I am getting up there and not all of us can find our brand of dye anymore."  
  
Upon closer inspection, Rebecca realized that he was, indeed, graying slightly at the temples. "Don't worry, Kurt. I think it just makes you look that much more distinguished and even, may I say, more desirable." She flashed a seductive smile.  
  
"Ach, you are too much. But thank you anyhow."  
  
"Seriously, Kurt. You still look lovely."  
  
"Danke schoen. Would you like to see Wolverine with red hair?"  
  
"RED?"  
  
"Indubitably. Robert hypothesized that since our diminutive indigenous feral is so exorbitantly enthralled by estrogen-carriers with the analogous hair pigmentation, that he would not demur having his own so stained."  
  
"Henry!"  
  
"Soleil!"  
  
"So is it still red? I would adore seeing my erstwhile brother-in-law so discomfited."  
  
"Unfortunately, Jubilation negated the mutilation of her beloved educationalists distinctive mane and purchased a box of black dye."  
  
"And he actually USED it?"  
  
"To the contrary. He believed it was all part of an intricate conspiratorial game to coerce him to dye his hair twice. He shaved his head."  
  
"Oh! Noooo!!!  
  
"Oh! Yessss!!! However, owing to his healing factor, it has all grown out by now, quite as it formerly was."  
  
"What a shame."  
  
"Not really. We have it all videotaped. With stills."  
  
"Ooohh, in the shower and all?"  
  
Hank blushed furiously. "Unfortunately, Bobby also hypothesized that Logan overtly masculine comportment is a side-effect of certain key anatomical details being undersized."  
  
"And was he wrong?"  
  
"Hysterically." Hank caught her up in a bear-hug.  
  
"So you still have the tapes?"  
  
"Ah, the wench is desperate!"  
  
"Don't call me that!"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"I want to see the prankscapade."  
  
"Let's see if yah can sneak past the rest of yoah adorin' fans." Sam Guthrie nudged her shoulder. Give him a day, and it would be back to punching.   
  
"How much?"  
  
"Two hundred."  
  
"Make it two fifty and you're on."  
  
"All rahght. But Ah should warn ya, Logan an' Kyle're in theah. They'll smell ya first thang, an' ya cain't use yoah powahs."  
  
"All right. I'll just stand. . .downwind."  
  
"Ah don't think yah can do it. Tell ya what, double or nothin'."  
  
"You're on."  
  
XXX  
  
"Fork it over, Mister Yah Cain't use Yoah Powahs! Not even the telepaths sensed my presence!"  
  
"Yah got in and out without sendin' up a ruckus? How'd ya. . ."  
  
"Let's go in and do the greetings for real, Sammy." She lowered her eyes. "I've been apart from a lot of them much longer than I've been apart from you. Hell, I saw the X-Men and the New Mutants six months ago. I just. . .it's just X-Cell I haven't dealt with in a long time. Years."  
  
"Sixteen yeahs."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Long tahme."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Would ya like me ta come in with ya?"  
  
"Yes, please. That would be. . .wonderful."  
  
"Come on then, babe." He tucked her under one muscular arm and they strode into the TV room together.  
  
XXX 


	2. What They Said

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Two: What They Said  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask. X-Cell is my own invention, and it includes the members of the former Generation X (e.g. Husk, M, Skin, Jubilee, Chamber, Leech, and Artie Maddocks, now known as Vision) and is headed by Jubilation Lee and X-Man.   
  
Quick note: Jono has rebuilt his face, and can use his powers to project sound. However, much of his body is still psionic energy, and the hole in his chest is still there.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
"Soleil, welcome back."  
  
"Thanks, Summers. It's been a while."  
  
"'Ey, p'tite, whatchya been doin' dat's kept ya 'way fo'e so long?"  
  
"I've been in Europe, actually. Jobs. I'm working with Chris Warden, unofficially."  
  
  
  
"Ooh, he's such a hottie, sugah! Do tell!"  
  
"I haven't seen you for a half-year, Rogue. Go easy on me." Rebecca hissed into the Southern woman's ear.  
  
"And ya haven't seen X-Cell in sixteen yeahs, so talk fast." Rogue murmured back, squeezing her friend's hand.  
  
"I'll tell you later on. Does the Cajun still brood on the roof?"  
  
"We ain't tagetha, sugah. But yeah, he does."  
  
"Fantastic."  
  
"That'd betta not be a 'he's single so let's jump his bones' fantastic."  
  
"Nothing of the sort, darling." Rebecca smiled. "So, I hear my brother is absent?"  
  
Jubilee lifted her head off Logan's lap long enough to say, "He's on tour in Japan."  
  
"Ohh. And when will he be back?"  
  
"Soon."  
  
"Ah. And the Professor? I have some power developments to discuss with him."  
  
"He's. . .not heah." Rogue's eyes dropped to her hands.  
  
"Where is he, then?"  
  
Logan met her eyes squarely, something he'd only done once or twice before in their long association. "He ain't doin' too well, Soleil. A week'r so ago he started losin' control o' his powers, an' he just disappeared."  
  
"So none of you know where to find him?" she stood up, her too-large hands fisting tightly. "He is your leader! Regardless of the Onslaught fiasco, you ought to be looking for him!"  
  
"Calm down, kid, he ain't lost. We got a message from him a coupl'a days ago, tellin' us he was in outer space with Princess Lilandra. She's helpin' him calm it down an' they're still diagnosin' the problems."  
  
"Problems?" her voice was devoid of emotion. "As in more than one?"  
  
"Oui, p'tite," Gambit put a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry y' had t' find out dis way."  
  
"I would have relayed the information to you, but you didn't show up on our tracers and you've been blocking Cerebro." Scott stated, eyebrows drawing together slightly.  
  
"This is great." Rebecca took a deep breath, steadying her shaken body and mind, aligning herself mentally until her soul was centered in the pit of her stomach. She slowly lowered herself back onto the couch between Sam and Rogue. "I'm sorry I wasn't available. I may have been able to help. Where is Jean?"  
  
"She joined him as soon as she heard the news. He thought that perhaps having her there might steady him."  
  
"I see. Well, there's no sense in my being a killjoy. I'll. . .ah. . .find a motel to stay at, and when Jonothon returns, you could inform me, or I'll call or. . ."  
  
"Liebling, stay." Kurt bounded over the couch just as his pseudo-sister moved out of the way, grasping Rebecca's hands in both of his. "There is no need for you to leave your family when you have just returned."  
  
"This isn't my family, Kurt. This is yours. I don't belong here." She disentangled herself from her friend and wheeled out of the room, leaving everyone stunned.  
  
XXX  
  
*RRRRIIINNNNGGGG!*  
  
*CLICK*  
  
"If this is anyone out of that rot mansion, I'm blasting yer ter th' second circle o' hell." The voice at the other end of the telephone was groggy, as though it had just been wakened from deep slumber.  
  
"Jono?" Rebecca inquired hesitantly, though she knew it was her brother.  
  
"'Oo's this?"  
  
"This is Rebecca."  
  
"Reb. . .'oo?" his voice sharpened, becoming mildly annoyed.  
  
"The one that married the psycho-murderer."  
  
"Soleil?"  
  
"Everyone's calling me that now, I guess."  
  
"So, wot's up? 'Ow come yer callin' me now?"  
  
"Just thought I should check up on my big brother."  
  
"Yeh, well. I'm fine." The annoyance became clearer in the shortness of his words and the way he bit them off.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Fer wot?"  
  
"Not visiting. Not calling. Don't think that I didn't want to. I just. . ."  
  
"If yeh heard about M an' yer ex, I ain't angry."  
  
"I heard. But before that, I just. . .I wanted to, but I had stuff. I had jobs, and. . .I don't really have a good excuse, actually."  
  
"Were yer scared, Sol?"  
  
"Yeah." Her voice whispered over the lines like the brush of a feather.  
  
"'S excuse enough, gel. Ain't like I couldn't've contacted you."  
  
"I don't know, Jonothon, I was well hidden."  
  
"Well. It's good ter hear yer voice, luv."  
  
"I'm. . .I'm at a hotel in Salem Center."  
  
"Wot?! 'Ow come yer not at the mansion? If M did anythin' ter make yer uncomfortable. .." his voice rose a notch.  
  
"No, Jono, it isn't that. I just. . .they were out when I got there. I just didn't feel like confronting Rogue."  
  
"'Ow come? She was one o' yer best friends, so Jubilee tells me."  
  
"Yeah, but she's. . .she still considers me her own private soap opera. I don't really feel comfortable telling her everything that's happened in my life during the past six months."  
  
"Six months? 'Ow much could'a happened in a six months, luv?"  
  
"Nothing! Well, a lot. But I don't wanna discuss it over the phone." There was silence for a moment, and then she chuckled softly.   
  
"Wot is it, luv?"  
  
"The last time we saw each other, I was pissed about being married to Victor Creed and plotting ways to get out of my marriage and your face was still absent while you angsted over Paige Guthrie. We were adolescents. We were what? Seventeen and eighteen? And now, I've gotten rid of Vic and you've got thousands of screaming fans willing to do anything to have you. . . and we've fallen into this. . .this banter. It's like all those years never passed and we're just as comfortable speaking with one another as if we had grown up together and never were apart."  
  
After a few moments of reflection, he laughed himself and answered, "Yer right."  
  
"Well. . .I have to go. How long is this tour going for?"  
  
"Oh, I've got two more concerts. I'm on the train right now, actually. I'll be 'ome in a week'r so."  
  
"Great. Hey, I'll see you then."  
  
"Orright. Hey, Rebecca?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I. . .I love yeh, orright?"  
  
"I love you, too, Jono."  
  
*CLICK*  
  
XXX 


	3. Brother not of Blood

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Three: Brother Not of Blood  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask. X-Cell is my own invention, and it includes the members of the former Generation X (e.g. Husk, M, Skin, Jubilee, Chamber, Leech, and Artie Maddocks, now known as Vision) and is headed by Jubilation Lee and X-Man.   
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
The knock on the door found Rebecca in the shower. She scanned telepathically and picked up Logan's very distinctive psi-signature. Telekinetically opening the door, she sent a brief message to him that she would be out in a moment. Once she had rinsed the suds out of her hair, she tied on a robe and greeted him.  
  
"Nice place ya've got here."  
  
"I used to stay here. . .when I felt like going to the mansion but never had the courage to show up on your doorstep."  
  
"Was that a lot?"  
  
"Yes, it was."  
  
"Creed told me about the. . .tests Sinister did. Ya think they're true?"  
  
"Sure. Why shouldn't they be?"  
  
"It's Sinister."  
  
"He doesn't lie. Not to me."  
  
"How come yer so sure o' that?"  
  
"I know him better than I know myself."  
  
"Oh. That's comfortin', seein' as yer powerful enough ta blow up most o' the continent on an off day."  
  
She smiled tightly as she towel-dried her hair. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"  
  
"Just wonderin'. . .how come ya left? I mean, the X-Men have been yer family."  
  
"Funny. I thought I had said something entirely contradictory to that the moment I left."  
  
"The elf didn't mean no harm by askin' ya ta stay."  
  
"I know. It's just. . .I couldn't stand. . .I'm not talking about this with you, Wolverine. I scarcely know you. And the last time we met, you were hell-bent on ripping my throat out, so let's just say that I'm not entirely comfortable around you."  
  
"Why's that? I thought you were one o' the toughest mercs around, not ta mention one o' the most powerful."  
  
"Ever been bitten by a dog?"  
  
"Can't say as I have."  
  
"Well when one is attacked by a canine, one later skirts it, no matter how much repentance it has shown."  
  
"I think I get what yer tryin' ta say. Once bitten, twice shy."  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"Good. But I ain't here ta attack ya. I'm here ta ask ya ta stay at the mansion."  
  
"Why? I'm perfectly comfortable here."  
  
"Because they miss ya over there. Rogue wants ta hear all about this fella ya've been workin' with, Gumbo's missin' his favorite sparrin' partner, Hayseed's blowin' off ta Kentucky twice a day, an' Kurt's sulkin'. Have ya ever known Kurt ta sulk?"  
  
"Can't say as I have." She replied, making her voice gruff in a pale imitation of his earlier comment. He grinned, thick lips drawing back from ivory-white teeth in a gesture not entirely habitual to him. She pursed her lips and nodded. "Maybe. . .soon. I don't want to be. . .a burden."  
  
"Just 'cause the Prof an' Jeannie are gone don't mean the X-Men ain't gonna welcome one o' their own."  
  
"It's not like I won't visit. I just don't feel right. There are too many people I've attempted evisceration on there."  
  
"All right. I ain't forcin' ya or anything. Just sayin', they miss ya over there."  
  
"Tell them I miss them, too. That's why I came to Salem Center in the first place. And they're welcome over anytime."   
  
"I'll do that, darlin'."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Hey, it's headin' on fer eight o'clock. Ya had anythin' ta eat?"  
  
"No, not really."  
  
"Come on down ta Harry's with me."  
  
"Oh, really, I just got out of the shower. . ."  
  
"So put somethin' on. It don't have ta be fancy. I'll wait for ya in the lobby."  
  
"I'm good, seriously. I had a late lunch."  
  
"My treat, darlin'."  
  
"All right. I suppose I owe it to you for nearly ripping your arm out of its socket."  
  
"Without yer powers, no less."  
  
She grinned and flexed a bicep.  
  
"So, I'll meet ya downstairs in a half-hour?"  
  
"Fifteen minutes. I dress fast."  
  
"Sounds good."  
  
"What are you driving."  
  
He flashed another smile, this one dangerously charming. "My bike, o' course."  
  
XXX 


	4. Codependency and Waitresses named Madge

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Four: Codependency and Waitresses Named Madge  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask. X-Cell is my own invention, and it includes the members of the former Generation X (e.g. Husk, M, Skin, Jubilee, Chamber, Leech, and Artie Maddocks, now known as Vision) and is headed by Jubilation Lee and X-Man.   
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Rogue pushed aside the gym door, paced inside, studied her step-brother swinging on the parallels. His muscles cried out from beneath his deep indigo fur as he pulled his legs perpendicular to the higher bar. "Kurt?"  
  
"Ja, Rogue?" he brought his left leg over to his front while spreading his right back.  
  
"Why do yah think Sol left, sugah? Ah mean, theah's nothin' heah foah her ta be afraid of. Weah her family, lahke ya said. So why'd she run? Ah undahstand that she mahght not want tah see M an' Creed togethah, but she ain't nevah been in love with him!"  
  
"You're asking the wrong man," he blew his hair out of his eyes and swung himself up, so that his legs were pointing toward the ceiling and he was balancing precariously on a single rod.  
  
"But yoah so close ta her. Ah mean, even Ah feel, ya know, intimidated bah that quiet thing she does sometahmes."  
  
"Our Soleil is going through a few life changes. She has given up the name Creed, as she gave up the name Essex. She is independent now. She has no one to call her own, and she is flying to this extreme so quickly that she feels she must abandon everything that has given her care in the past."  
  
"But she's already so feisty, so self-reliahnt."  
  
"I'm afraid you're wrong about that," a grim smile touched the German-born mutant's lips. "You see, for her entire life, Rebecca has had some form of security, sometimes in the form of a present guardian, sometimes in the form of a name everyone has learned to fear."  
  
"Ah get it. First, she was Sinistah's adopted daughtah, an' he protected her lahke she was family, an' latah it was bein' married ta Sabahtooth."  
  
"Ja." He let go of the bars, but just before his face smacked into the ground, his tail looped around one and caught him. Falling into a crouch, he grabbed a bottle of water on the floor and poured it into his wide-open mouth.  
  
"Ah wanna see her. Yah know where she mahght be stayin'?"  
  
"Ja, but I think Logan went, already."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Logan. Short, hairy, bad temper?"  
  
"Ah see. Yoah twin."  
  
"Tut, tut, liebshen. Don't mock your best sources."  
  
"Ah'm not mockin'. So Logan went out tah make peace?"  
  
"Ja. But if you're hungry, I could whip you up a batch of German pancakes."  
  
"That'd be nahce."  
  
"I'll be upstairs in twenty. Got to wash off."  
  
"All rahght. Meet ya in the kitchen, sugah."  
  
XXX  
  
Logan killed his Hog's engine as they arrived in the parking lot at Harry's. Rebecca slipped off smoothly, her hand brushing against Logan's back as she dismounted. Removing the key, he tucked it in his pocket, straightened, and offered her his arm. "Shall we, darlin'?"  
  
"Sure. And I'll be thanking you not to call me that."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"Because I usually bust Vic's balls for that, and you, sir, are no exception."  
  
"Fine by me, darlin'." He grinned rakishly and held the door open for her. They slid into a nauseatingly 50s retro linoleum corner-booth and waited silently for the plump, middle-aged waitress to stump over and hand them greasy menus. "Get me a beer, Madge." Logan demanded instantly, lighting up a fat stogie.  
  
"And fer the lady?"  
  
"Mountain Dew."  
  
Logan nearly choked on his cigar. "Vic know yer such an irresponsible drinker?"  
  
"Of course he does. Why the hell do you think he never asked me out on a date and married me in a courthouse?"  
  
"Really? Vic never asked ya out on a date?"  
  
"Never. Whenever we had any. . .social engagements, they were either formal or he'd just drag me out of bed, throw some clothes on me, and tell me we were going out to eat."  
  
"Well, I guess I never expected him ta be romancin' a girl. . ."  
  
"Oh, it wasn't that."  
  
"What was it?"  
  
"It was just that I never let him smoke those disgusting cigars." She reached out and put the roll of wine-soaked tobacco out between her thumb and forefinger. "They're very bad for my health."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Don't you DARE give me that kicked puppy look, either. Only Natty can pull that one off effectively on me."  
  
"Natty?! As in Essex?"  
  
"Yes, as in Essex. 'Mr. Sinister,' to you, I suppose. Don't look so shocked. He's never done it to you, so how CAN you judge? Besides, he's had a good hundred years or so to get really good at it."  
  
"Fer all you know, I could be older'n him."  
  
"That's true, isn't it? How odd. Thank you," she pasted on a small, yet brilliantly fake smile as Madge returned with drinks.  
  
"Are ya ready, or should I come back around?" she poised her pen over her clipboarded paper.  
  
"I'll have the 24-ounce steak, medium rare." Rebecca flicked her menu and handed it back to Madge.  
  
"I'll have the same, darlin', 'cept very rare."  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
"Actually, I was kind of hoping you could bring around some apple pie later on, for dessert."  
  
"Did ya want it à la mode?"  
  
"I'd like my ice cream on the side. Logan?"  
  
"I'll have it the same way."  
  
"All right. That it?"  
  
"Make sure this darling fellow doesn't see an empty bottle, hmm?"  
  
"All right."  
  
"Thanks, Madge." Logan smirked at Rebecca as the waitress retreated. "Ya know, ya shouldn't be orderin' stuff fer me."  
  
"But that's what you like, isn't it? Apple pie with ice cream on the side after eating something that mooed, and endless beer."  
  
"Yeah. I'm guessin' Vic likes it pretty much the same?"  
  
"Oh, no!"  
  
"Then how d'ya know all this?"  
  
"I spent far too much time with Jubilee back when I used to regularly my brother in the Berkshires, and for some reason, all her 'Wolvie' stories just. . .stuck."  
  
"Hmm. Thanks, but I can order fer myself, darlin'."  
  
"Then, in the future, you will." She caught the glint in his eye, and pursed her lips. "That does NOT mean there WILL be a future, just so you know that I am NOT hitting on you."  
  
He held up both hands, palm up, chuckling quietly. "I give up, darlin'. I wasn't gonna take it any way ya don't want me to."  
  
"Smart boy," she sipped her soda, then drew back from the straw with a slightly demented fire blazing behind her brilliant ice-blue eyes. "Is this place mutant-friendly?"  
  
"What're ya gonna do?"  
  
"Just a quiet little display that might turn a few heads."  
  
"Well, shield it telepathically so's no one else can see it."  
  
"Oh, all right. Back in the day, Vic would rather claw his way out of a bar than pretend that we were anything less than mutants."  
  
"Yeah, but I ain't Vic, an' that was on the road. Twenty years ago!"  
  
"No, it was only fifteen." She stated pertly, using her telekinesis to lift little bubbles of soda from her glass. "Want some?"  
  
"No thanks."  
  
"Oh, all right." She pouted. "You're no fun at all."  
  
"I really hope ya don't mean that."  
  
"And why is that? Because you'd be obligated to show me a good time in defense of your good partying name?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"Fantastic. Just what I wanted to hear."  
  
"Was worried about that."  
  
"What's to be worried about? You're going to be doing all the leading tonight."  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"And you had better not take me to some dive merely to display your martial prowess in a bar brawl. Because in these stilettos, I could really put someone's eye out."  
  
"Guess again."  
  
"Hmmm. . .we're going to some skanky dancing club where you can grind about on my leg."  
  
"Strike two, darlin'. Keep 'em comin'." Madge hustled over and dumped a bucket of pickles on the table. Logan pulled two out with the tongs and offered one to Rebecca.  
  
"We're going to go home, and you're going to program the Danger Room for us to kick my ex-husband's tail, just like old times."  
  
"Strike three. Tell ya what, I'm a nice guy. I'll tell ya what it is."  
  
"Oookaaay."  
  
"We're gonna stick around here."  
  
"Oh, dear. Please tell me you're yanking me."  
  
He glared at her in a way that was known to make even the bravest of men run screaming in soprano for their mothers. She returned a sultry eye-bat. "One, I hope there ain't nothing TO yank, and two, I'm not, even if there was. We're gonna stick around here fer a while, but that don't mean we're spendin' the entire evenin'. The night is young."  
  
"I like the way you think."  
  
"Good. An' yer gonna hafta drink somethin' a little heavier if ya want ta get ta phase two."  
  
"Madge! Scotch! Neat! Twist!"  
  
XXX 


	5. Of Roofs and Mad Geniuses

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Five: Of Roofs and Mad Geniuses  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask. X-Cell is my own invention, and it includes the members of the former Generation X (e.g. Husk, M, Skin, Jubilee, Chamber, Leech, and Artie Maddocks, now known as Vision) and is headed by Jubilation Lee and X-Man.   
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
All was silent on the roof of Xavier's Institute. The moon was full, and its round yellow face seemed to mock the hard silhouette it cast into harsh relief. Gambit cupped the flame of his lighter carefully as his lit up a cigarette, inhaled, held the acrid smoke in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling it into the crisp night air, where it dissolved into intricate patterns of swirling gray.  
  
"Remy?" unprepared for the voice of an old lover to break his concentration on nothing in particular, the man leapt up and turned in a single, graceful movement, swiping his bo-staff from his pocket and extending it to full length, with blades on either ends. "What're yah doin', sugah?"  
  
"Not'in', chère. Broodin'. What de hell y' t'ink I be doin'? 'Sides, what de hell do YOU care?"  
  
"A lot, Remy How's it goin' with Sarah?"  
  
"It ain'. She dumped me."  
  
"Everyone seems to think it ain't permanent. Lahke you'n Ah."  
  
He chuckled quietly, the dry sound sending a shudder up Rogue's spine. "We were a disaster, weren't we?"  
  
"Why'd she leave yah?" Rogue settled beside Gambit and crossed her legs.  
  
"Why you wanna know?" he grinned cynically. "So y' can gloat?"  
  
"No, Remy. Ah wanna be friends."  
  
"Dunno if dat's possible aft' de emotional roller-coaster we put each oder on."  
  
"AH think it's possible. Only if yah want."  
  
"It'll be misinterpreted, chère. Dere's no point in our bein' friends. I got Stormy fo'e romantic advice an' cryin' on de shoulder."  
  
"But Ah don't wanna be shut outta yoah lahfe, Remy, even if weah not romantically involved anymoah."  
  
"Mebbe it ain' de bes' t'ing now. If we get close, chère, ev'yone'll say, 'Look at de LeBeau man-whore. Sarah break up wit' him 'cause he sleep 'round, now he go back t' Roguie.' Can' do dat, ange." He took another drag of his cigarette.  
  
"Ya really love her, don't yah?"  
  
"Oui,"  
  
"Moah than yah loved me?"  
  
"Rogue, it was different. Fo' Sarah an' I de relationship was mo'e physical den anyt'in', an' dere was a lotta instability. I wasn' sure whedder she loved me, an' she didn' know dat I loved her. Wit you, de on'y t'ing keepin' us T'GETHA was love. Dere was practically not'in' else. R'memba?"  
  
A distant look came to Rogue's eyes before they snapped back into clarity. "Remy," she said, in a warning tone, "y'all didn't cheat on Sarah, did yah?"  
  
His head whipped around, his demon's eyes stuck into hers like twin daggers. That one look was worth a sermon.   
  
"Sorry," she murmured.  
  
"Don' worry 'bout it." His voice was low, guttural.  
  
"Ah know yah didn't cheat on me when we were togethah."  
  
"Den why woul' y' t'ink I'd cheat on Sarah?" his voice dipped and cracked the moment he said her name, becoming soft, almost reverent.  
  
"Ah dunno. Ah'm sorry, Remy. Ah shouldn't have. . ."  
  
"Well, y' did. So, did y' really come up here t' gloat over m' ruined social life, or did y' want somethin' else?"  
  
"Oh. Yeah. Scott says yoah in foah Security Watch with Bishop."  
  
"Fantastique." He murmured. "I get t' bond wit' my adopted son from an altenate timeline. Mebbe t'morrow we can catch de baseball game." He groaned as his back popped. "I ain' as young as I used t' be."  
  
"Weah all gettin' oldah, Remy."  
  
"Oui. Jeanne be dyin' her hair red, an' Scott's gettin' 'distinguished.'"  
  
"What's the average age of th' X-Men now, sugah?"  
  
"Ain' interested. As long as I still got de moves an' de body, non?" he shot her one of his best smiles, the kind that still made her go weak in the knees.  
  
"An' yah surely do still have them," she muttered to herself. Then, aloud, "C'mon, sugah, Ah don't suggest yah keep a six-and-a-half foot tall, 275-pound time-traveler with an arsenal in his jeans pocket waitin', huh?"  
  
"Oui, I guess y' be right."  
  
XXX  
  
"Thanks for the drive home, Logan."  
  
"'S jest what gentlemen do."  
  
"Well, it was a lovely evening. I had no idea you could ballroom dance so well."  
  
"SLOW-dance." He corrected gently.  
  
"Slow dance. Whatever." She waved her hand in a random gesture of dismissal, and Logan caught it up in his.  
  
"Ya know, Sinister does that, too."  
  
"Does he," she shrugged. "I hadn't noticed. He IS the only paternal caretaker I've ever known, so it's not entirely perplexing that I inherited some of his more subtle idiosyncrasies."  
  
"I guess not. Well, it's been nice, darlin', thanks fer the company."  
  
"You're welcome, and good night."  
  
"Night." He turned to start up his scoot.  
  
"Just a moment, if you please," she snapped her fingers a couple times, as though in afterthought. "Do you know what times Victor and Miss St. Croix are likely to be at the mansion? I would very much like to see the woman who has made him so happy and. . .calm?" her ironic twist to the word was not lost on Logan.  
  
"They're always out at night. Always sleepin' in the mornin', in the Danger Room in th' afternoon, but tomorrow's Saturday. Danger Room's off limits. So if yer lucky, you'll catch 'em makin' out in the den in front o' some European chick flick round about three o'clock."  
  
"Thank you, Logan. You're a lifesaver."  
  
"Welcome, darlin'. I guess I'll see ya tomorrow at three?" he held out a big, square, callused hand  
  
"Yes, of course. Three." She pressed her slim fingers into his rugged palm. "It's a deal."  
  
"Night again." He grinned.  
  
"Good night." She turned walked into the motel lobby, picked up her key, and walked outside to her door. Slamming her key into its slot, she shoved open the door and locked it carefully after her. Tugging off her jacket and shoes, she stripped down to her underwear and sank gratefully into bed.  
  
A few moments later, she sat up.   
  
"Who's that?"   
  
"No one, really," a low, masculine voice replied, a tall, imposing figure rising out of the darkness to greet her.  
  
"Natty!"  
  
"Rebecca," he smiled, and tossed her an oversized T-Shirt. "Put this on."  
  
Rolling her eyes, she complied. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I've been ridiculously uninspired in the laboratory, my dear. Things have been going all downhill. None of my Marauders have been murdered, and thus I have done to recent cloning. The Summers family is fortified beyond my wildest nightmares and you are doing nothing (as usual) to aid me in my quest for their genetic material."  
  
"I'm not here to be a supervillain OR a mercenary, Nathaniel Essex. I am here to reassure my erstwhile husband that I am not irritated at his romantic involvement with a woman who has previously been on frigid terms with me."  
  
"I don't believe you are really so concerned about Master Creed as all that."  
  
"Well then, you misjudged me when you paired us."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Oh, come now," she rolled her eyes and smoothed her hair gently. "You didn't believe I would have gotten involved with Victor of my own volition? I knew you had plans for us!"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about,"  
  
"Oh, come ON! I don't mind having been a side project."  
  
"A WHAT?! You have been my priority since the moment I kidnapped you!"  
  
"Cute, but all wrong," Rebecca shrugged, allowing her hair to fall freely over her narrow shoulders. "I'm not an idiot, Nathaniel, you should know that. After all, you were the one to raise me." She smiled sweetly, staring into Sinster's glowing red eyes with as much trepidation as if she were gazing at an infant asleep in its crib. Drooling.  
  
"You had BETTER not be going 'round telling people that I am practically your father!"  
  
"You weren't. Unless strapping me nude to a metal table and performing life-threatening experiments on me is considered good fathering nowadays," she shrugged.  
  
"You don't seem to be at all incensed that your childhood was spirited away from you and put to use in my laboratory."  
  
"I had opportunities not many children have. Ever. You never neglected my academic schooling, and might I add that as you are one of the foremost scientists in the world, I knew the periodic table within the first year I was in your custody."  
  
"You were four, and I never gave any attempt to school you before the tests were completed and I was assured that your body would not be overburdened by your prodigious capabilities. Furthermore, you gave no signs of genius intelligence."  
  
"My genes had been over stimulated to psionisis, that my mutation might manifest fully within a few months. I merely tucked it away deep down in my astral consciousness, and I draw upon it when I need it. That is how I got all my schooling."  
  
"How did you ever get ahold of the periodic table?"  
  
"I don't know. You left one lying around, and I thought it looked interesting. I was scarcely alive, and on the verge of madness from having my telepathy running rampant. I picked it up and memorized it. Gave me something to focus on."  
  
"Ah. You know, we need to have a talk about this," he bared gleaming white fangs in what had been a charming dazzler when he had been in his human body.  
  
"No, we don't."  
  
"Rebecca, my dear. . ."  
  
"There's nothing to talk about, Natty. Please. Just stop." She pouted. "You haven't hugged me yet, you horrid evil genius."  
  
"You aren't dressed."  
  
"The great Nathaniel Essex, recoiling from a woman for modesty's sake! What will the Summers think!" she teased.  
  
"You know, anyone else to say that would be searching frenetically for their insides by now." He murmured casually.  
  
"You wouldn't hurt me, because you still haven't got your test results in from me."  
  
"I still don't know how you mean."  
  
"I saw your dossier on Victor and I."  
  
"What dossier? I don't understand what you're saying."   
  
"We're your secondary breeding project, Natty. And don't you DARE pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You set Vic and I up so we would make babies for your experimentation pleasure. But we got married instead. And the last thing he wanted to do was have a quadrillion pint-sized Graydons running about, and I didn't fancy getting pregnant, either. So between conventional contraceptives and my telekinesis, everything worked out well. Even though it was difficult getting up MY strength. He recovers quickly from EVERYTHING, did you know?" she gave Essex a saucy wink.  
  
"Rebecca, I…"  
  
"You don't know where I got these ideas. Yes, of course." She rolled her eyes. "I'm going to visit him tomorrow."  
  
"Are you going to apologize for running away from him-yet again?"  
  
"No, I am not. We're not getting back together, Nathaniel. We're confirming our divorce."  
  
"Why would he want to divorce you?"  
  
"Because he's fallen in love, as unlikely as that sounds."  
  
"With whom?"  
  
"With one of the more powerful members of X-Cell."  
  
"Jubilation Lee?"  
  
"She's their leader, and yes, she's extremely powerful, but that would be just a LITTLE too Freudian for Victor. She's his brother's protégée."  
  
"So who is it?"  
  
"Guess."  
  
"He isn't homosexual, and he likes blondes, but he enjoyed certain-aspects of telepathy, so I'm going to go with Monet St. Croix."  
  
"And Davis has the ball. . .he's running. . .he's in the end zone. . .touchdown!"   
  
"Thank you, but I am not in the mood to do a victory dance, if you don't mind."  
  
"Of course not," she smiled. "However, I am extremely tired, as I HAVE been dancing tonight, and my legs are jelly."  
  
"Perhaps that has more to do with your partner than your physical endurance."  
  
"And perhaps not." She smiled. "I'm tired, Natty. Please open a tesseract and begone."  
  
"All right." He leaned toward her, arms open, and she slid into the embrace easily. "We've missed you in Europe."  
  
"Well, tell the Marauders that I'll be down shortly to kick their tails to Kingdom Come."  
  
"I'll do that. Farewell, but not forever."  
  
"Farewell but not forever, Natty." She grinned as he opened a portal and stepped through. "Damn," she murmured. "I'm going to have to take a bath, or Logan's going to tear me apart."  
  
XXX 


	6. Rendezvous

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Six: Rendezvous  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
Okay, so I KNOW seventeen is underage, but that hasn't stopped the majority of today's youth, right? Besides, I don't think Sabretooth would let that stop him if he knew he was going to marry the girl, anyhow! Oh, yeah, and Creed and Rebecca weren't only married for twelve years, they were married for fifteen. Sorry about that. I can't ever make up my mind.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
"Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning."  
  
"Good afternoon, Kitty. This is Rebecca Starsmore. May I come in?"  
  
"Sure. Just a moment." There was a whirr, and the huge wrought-iron gates of Xavier's swung open. She gunned her engine, and sped her sleek Jag up the driveway, parking it with a squeal and slipping up to the more frequently used side-door so as not to make a scene.  
  
Supporting the screen door with her fingertips so as not to allow it to slam shut behind her, Rebecca moved into the mansion, moving from the kitchen to the sitting-room. As predicted, Monet was just shoving a DVD into the player, while Victor lay slouched across the sofa, hands on his stomach.  
  
"Good afternoon, Victor, Miss St. Croix."  
  
Monet whirled around. "Miss Starsmore! We weren't expecting you!"  
  
"Do you mean to say that Logan didn't drop a clue that I would be coming by about this time? What a crying shame."  
  
"I'm sorry we weren't more prepared."  
  
"Hey, frail. How's things?" Creed straightened from his sprawling posture.  
  
"Good, Victor. How are things with you? Relationship problems much?"  
  
"Nope, Monet's a lot better fer my health than you were."  
  
"Quite right. I was literal suicide for an ordinary man." Rebecca smiled and invited herself to a seat near her erstwhile spouse. "Fortunately for Miss St. Croix, you lived through it."  
  
"Yep. Hey, you girls used ta know each other, didn't ya?"  
  
"That's right! You went to high school with my brother, Jonothon. What do you think of his latest album, Stammer Rust in G Minor?"  
  
"I haven't listened to it. In fact, progressive rock isn't my favorite style."  
  
"It's alternative." Rebecca corrected gently, but with enough style to add an underlying punch to the snobbish Monocan aristocrat.   
  
"Well, you must forgive me. Music is only a secondary interest to me. I have X-Cell and other commitments to attend to. So, how have you thrived in the past. . .how long has it been? Sixteen years?"  
  
"Something like that. I've done fairly well for myself, in fact."  
  
"You're a mercenary, if my memory serves me correctly?" Monet's subtle smile said volumes.  
  
"That's right."  
  
"And how are you doing with that? I hear you're working with a Mr. Warden?"  
  
"Chris Warden, yes."  
  
"What?" Victor's spine suddenly snapped rigid. "What the fuck're ya doin' with a ball-less asshole like that?"  
  
"Working. Why, what's he ever done to you?" Rebecca wrinkled her nose in a way she knew made her ex-husband melt.  
  
"Ain't important. What's important is that he ain't all he's cracked up ta be. He's only got popular vote 'cause he's a pretty boy. He ain't no merc."  
  
"Isn't he? So far, he's done well enough."  
  
"Whatchya got him doin'? Deliverin' dispatches?"  
  
"No." she replied, her tone ice-cold. "He was INTERPOL, you know. He's not entirely useless."  
  
"'Entirely' bein' the key word! He's pretty darn much useless. He can't wire a shooter right, don't know nitroglycerine from his momma's milk!"  
  
"Are you saying he's green?'  
  
"That's exactly what I'm sayin'!"  
  
"I'm not precisely a merc-world hotshot, either, darling." She tugged on one of his sideburns familiarly. "You just say everyone's a neophyte because you're three days older than dirt, you ornery cuss." Victor responded with an indulgent smile. "And you're unfortunately proud of it. You need treatment."  
  
"What're you, a detective?" he laughed.  
  
"So, what exactly ARE you doing here, Miss Étoile?" Monet cut in.  
  
"I need a copy of our papers. As I recall, Victor, you got my signature and got out of my apartment like a shot from a gun," she smirked. "Very uncharacteristic, if I may say so, and Nathaniel would have agreed with me,"  
  
Victor growled under his breath. Rebecca was a troublemaker; she was only flaunting her relationship with Sinister to get under Monet's skin. Yeah. Her and the rest of the X-Lot.  
  
"I don't have it yet, but. . ."  
  
"M! Can I have a few words with you?" Jubilee poked her head into the room and beckoned to her subordinate.  
  
"Yes, Jubilation?" Monet said, as she entered the hall and faced her Team Leader, arms crossed over her chest.  
  
"Fer the last time, it's Jubilee, and you haven't gotten your quota Danger Room time this week." X-Cell's leader, no longer a gum-snapping youth but a beautiful woman in her prime, put her hands on her hips and faced the perfectionist egomaniac who'd put her through so many trials during their high school days.  
  
"I was with Victor."  
  
"You could have been with the Majestrix of the Shi'ar Empire, and I wouldn't care less. You need seven more hours of Danger Room Sims in you, and you have about thirty-four hours left in the week."  
  
Monet leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Jubilation, I know we've never been exceptionally close, but. . .Victor has a healing factor, if you know what I mean?"  
  
"M, I dated Jono for six months, and he doesn't get tired. I know exactly what you mean. But that shouldn't compromise your commitment to X-Cell. "  
  
"You haven't told his sister yet, have you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You haven't told Mademoiselle Étoile that you were seeing her brother."  
  
"Don't change the subject, M. I'm serious. I'll even do the hours with you, but you need the training time. What are you gonna do if, like, the Phalanx gets resurrected and you have to escape them again, huh? Screw 'em to death?"  
  
"You know something, Jubilation?" Monet fisted her hands at her sides and clenched her jaw. "The moment I begin to believe that you have become a competent leader, and are just as right for your position as Mr. Summers for his, you prove me wrong!"  
  
"I'm not trying to give you proof that I haven't grown up, M. I don't know why, but I'm actually concerned for your safety in a battle situation. It isn't like I'm trying my hardest to be childish because I enjoy your belittling comments. If you're going to argue about this with me, then maybe I should just hand this situation over to X-Man. He seems to be able to handle you so much better!"  
  
"Well, if you're going to threaten me, then I suppose I have no choice but to follow your instructions."  
  
"Jeez Lou-eez, M. Why don't you just grow up? I'm the leader of X-Cell. There's no reason to challenge me on this!"  
  
"Well, then gloat some more, why don't you, you spiteful little bean! Just because you passed those un-rea-sonable tests the X-Men put out and flirted your way into your station doesn't make me any less right for it! Or capable! By all means, I should be the one leading X-Cell!"  
  
Jubilee listened to Monet scream and watched her go blue in the face quite calmly; her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes stone cold. "I'm sorry you feel that way, M. I'll meet you in the Danger Room in what, say twenty minutes?"  
  
"I don't need your condescension. I am quite capable of going through a simple Danger Room Simulation on my own."   
  
"I'm not stoppin' ya." Holding up both hands in a gesture of concession, she watched as the older woman whirled back into the den, holding back tears. "Damn, Cyke, how do ya handle this shit?"  
  
"So, what was that about, darlin'?" Victor inquired when she appeared.  
  
"I actually have some time to make up for in the Danger Room. Surprising how Jubilation thinks she's quite as important as Cyclops now that she's the leader of an X-Team."  
  
"How many hours have ya got left, then, darlin'? I can do 'em with ya."  
  
"No, I'd rather just. . .do them myself. It's only a lot of drill work, and wouldn't want to bore you with it."  
  
"Darlin', if it's tearin' somethin' ta bits. . ."  
  
"I'm going to do endurance tests. I don't know how long I can stand up against you," she pecked him on the forehead, but he pulled her down for a deep lip-lock.  
  
"Victor! We're in public!" Monet deliberately avoided eye contact with Rebecca, who was smirking irreverently at them.  
  
"An' yer my woman. An' I felt like kissin' ya, cause ya have seven more hours in the Danger Room."  
  
"You. . .ah. . .you heard that?"  
  
"Jubilee ain't as subtle as she likes ta think. Fer all her growin' up, she's still pretty darn loud." Victor grinned. "An' I've got enhanced senses."  
  
"Oh." Monet shrugged. "Well, I'll see you later, then."  
  
"See you, Miss St. Croix," Rebecca wiggled her fingers. Monet nodded curtly to her. Once she had left the room, Creed's facial expression transformed from amiable if slightly deranged to feral and infuriated. Lunging across the couch, he pinned his ex's shoulders to the cushions.  
  
"What the fuck're ya playin' at, girl?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, Victor," she replied coolly, in a voice which suggested that she would be inspecting her nails had her arms not been restrained.  
  
"Yer tryin' ta make Monet jealous. Why? Ya don't love me, ya never have! So don't come in here an' be all territorial over something ya know ain't yers!"  
  
"I'm not being territorial! I did nothing. Perhaps you're also angry because your lover didn't pass the X-Men's unreasonable tests. What were they, anyhow?"  
  
"Ain't none o' yer business. Why're ya really here?"  
  
"Your memory is none of the best, my darling, really. You made me promise that I'd be here, and here I am. A week or two late, perhaps, but here nonetheless."  
  
"I didn't really expect ya ta come through on this one."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
He slid off her, shoved a hand through unruly blond hair. "I dunno. I just think it would be better if ya left until yer brother comes home. I didn't think this through enough. I didn't know you an' Monet'd be such bitches at each other."  
  
"Excuse me? I was nothing if not a paragon of etiquette!"  
  
"Don't use that high falutin' mumbo-jumbo at me, Beck! An' what the hell is Logan's scent doin' on yer jacket?"  
  
"He took me to Harry's last night, for dinner."  
  
"Like a date? Ain't that just a little kinky, even fer you?"  
  
"No, not like a date. Like a friendly former enemy who is trying to make sure I get proper nutrition. I wouldn't date him!"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Redundancy."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Our relationship was nothing to boast about, Victor, and I don't. But at times, it must be referred to, if only for the sake of record."  
  
"What exactly are ya sayin' here?"  
  
"I'm saying that any romantic involvement, however unfeasible, that I might have with Wolverine, would too closely mirror that which I shared with you, and I do not wish particularly to repeat that. . .experience."  
  
"Are ya hintin' that I wasn't a good boyfriend?"  
  
"Are you hinting that we had any relationship besides superficial before I was browbeaten into marrying you?"  
  
"Yeah, I am."  
  
"Well, we didn't."  
  
"I seem ta remember otherwise."  
  
"I sense this turning into an argument, and I don't feel any excessive need to argue with you presently. So how about I just get up and leave before you get any more cross."  
  
"We HAD a relationship, no matter WHAT ya want ta call it!"  
  
"Yes, of course we had a relationship. It was called marriage."  
  
"Before that."  
  
"Before that we had sex. That was all."  
  
"Sex is a relationship."  
  
"I've learned to use a different rulebook since I left you. And sex is NOT a relationship."  
  
"Yeah, it is. It sure as hell ain't platonic!"  
  
"Did I say it was? Perhaps in antediluvian minds, sexual intercourse constitutes a deep involvement, but not today, my dear." She tapped the tip of his nose with her index finger. "I'll just be going now."  
  
"Come ta think of it, I was yer first, wasn't I?"  
  
"Of course you were! I was barely seventeen!"  
  
"So? Essex made me promise that I'd 'take care' of ya when ya were barely twelve! Since he didn't mean take ya out, I guessed he meant marry ya. It ain't like I had anythin' better ta do!"  
  
"So neither of us took our vows very seriously?"  
  
"I did." His voice was low, reluctant.  
  
"That's only because I had a mutation about twenty times more powerful than yours, and that meant you'd really have to stay on my good side."  
  
"Not only that. Hell, it took me years ta give ya up, an' I only did it fer a woman like Monet."  
  
"She's really high maintenance, isn't she?"  
  
"I guess ya could say that. But it's nice, fer once, havin' a woman who cares whether ya sleep with her in yer arms or on yer own side o' the bed." A sudden smile split his face. "Come ta think of it, she's a bit like you."  
  
"I never cared whether you spooned me or curled up alone." Rebecca snorted.  
  
"Yeah, ya did. Ya never admitted it, but ya liked someone else there, holdin' ya."  
  
"And you know this be-caaaause-"  
  
"Because if my sniffer can detect fear, I guess it can also detect content." He shrugged. "Weren't ya goin' somewhere?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, I have to apologize to Kurt for running out on him the other day. Excuse me," she gave him a parting smile, and retreated.  
  
"I'll be damned," Creed rumbled low in his chest, "if that woman ain't gonna be the death o' me."  
  
XXX 


	7. How to fit Comeons and Philosophy into a...

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Seven: How to fit Come-ons and Philosophy into a Single Conversation  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
I'm sorry about Kurt's accent. I'm really bad with German accents. But I'm really good at Remy's!  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Rebecca swerved sharply to the right, taking the curve in the freeway at twenty miles above the speed limit. Her caramel-blonde hair streamed back in tangled waves, her blue eyes shielded from the wind by miniscule telekinetic shields. Rhapsody in Blue blared from the stereo, but she wasn't listening to it. Instead, she was reliving a moment in her far-gone past when she had thought she was coming to terms with her unwanted marriage.  
  
But she hadn't ever come to terms with it. Being married to Victor Creed was at one time the worst and best thing that had ever happened to her. It gave her protection from all the psychos out there who wouldn't touch a woman who "belonged" to Creed, but then again, it was a prison. Binding. Restrictive.  
  
Rebecca hated restrictions.  
  
Grounding the accelerator, she sped on, noting that she had just left Westchester County and was getting on for New York City. She honestly wanted to stop running, but she couldn't. She'd run for her entire life. And it was only now that she was realizing that the only thing she'd ever run from was Victor Creed.  
  
Just like she was running from him now.   
  
Easing her speed down to 70, she changed the station from classical to her favorite 60s Motown Station. Her eyelids slid down to half-mast as she listened to an eight-year-old Michael Jackson sing "I'll be There," her lips moving subconsciously to the words.  
  
". . .if you should ever find someone new, I know he'd better be good to you, ohh. . .'cause if he doesn't, then I'll be there. . ."  
  
*BAMF!*  
  
"Ah, liebshen! I have found you at last! Where are you headed?"  
  
"Airport." She replied. "And how DID you find me, anyhow?"  
  
"Kept teleporting."  
  
"And. . .?"  
  
"And Jean ran a telepathic scan on Cerebro for you. And she contacted me on your approximate whereabouts. It was mostly luck that I landed so perfectly in your passenger seat, eh?" Kurt grinned, kicking his feet up on the dashboard and pushing a hand through his long hair.  
  
"Are you going to stop me?"  
  
"Nein. I was hoping I could try some gentle persuasion, though."  
  
"It won't work. Give it up."  
  
"If you knew anything about me, liebshen, you would remember that I never give up."  
  
"So you're trying to take me back to the mansion?"  
  
"Yes, I am."  
  
"Well, you can't."  
  
"No one wants you disappearing for another sixteen years. I might be old and bent by that time." He bared shiny white fangs.  
  
"I didn't disappear on YOU for that long."  
  
"But you disappeared on your frater, mein liebling. How much worse is that?"  
  
"I didn't have any connection with him! I had to-"  
  
"And what will you do now, if I allow you to leave?"  
  
"I just want to visit in Spain for a little while. Is that such a crime?"  
  
"Nein. But you've had years to visit Sinister."  
  
"I'm not going to visit Sinister."  
  
"Ja, you are. Don't try lying to me, Soleil," he reached over and stroked her cheek, his calluses scraping gently against his fur, and then her skin. She slowed further and screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Something I should have done a long time ago, Kurt." She grasped him by the ears and planted her lips on his, fury clouding her vision when he pulled back abruptly. "What the fucking HELL are you doing? You aren't a priest, Kurt!"   
  
"This is not right. I am too old for you."  
  
"You WERE too old for me. Years ago. Not anymore." She traced her index finger down his nose, skittered her thumb across his lips, then pressed her palm full up against his neck, just behind his ear. "Hey, what's wrong, Kurt? Is there someone else? Don't you want me?"  
  
"No, there's no one else."  
  
"But you aren't attracted to me, are you?"  
  
"No, I just don't feel expressly like incurring Herr Creed's anger at the moment."  
  
"You won't. He has a woman, and I'm lonely. Please. No strings attached, unless you want them to be."  
  
Kurt seemed to cringe. "When a woman says that, it can only mean something bad."  
  
"I'm not a woman. Not an ordinary one, anyhow. You should know that by now."  
  
"I know. That's another thing that frightens me, liebshen."  
  
"Don't let it."  
  
"I must. I think my life depends on it."  
  
"You're a fraidy cat, aren't you? Deep down, under that tough indigo fur, you're just a poor sap, aren't you?"  
  
Kurt sighed. "You ALSO should know by now that taunting my manhood will not constrain me to do as you wish."  
  
Rebecca rolled her eyes. "I just want to jump your bones. Is that really so bad?"   
  
"Right now it is."  
  
"Damn." She shrugged. "All right, I suppose I COULD find some poor, unassuming country lout just arriving in the Big Apple and jump HIM."  
  
"You do that." He passed a hand over his brow, and she pulled back out onto the highway with a squeal of tires. After twenty minutes or so of driving, she glanced over at him, her expression contrite.  
  
"Kurt?"  
  
"Ja?"   
  
"I'm sorry. I really need to get out more."  
  
"Out of where?"  
  
"The merc world. Where everyone's fucking everyone, and it doesn't matter whom you've slept with or how."  
  
"Just remember that I'm an X-Man."  
  
"I will. I promise."  
  
"Good."  
  
"It was nothing personal, you know. I just need to get screwed silly."  
  
"Then get it with someone else," he replied, a little testily.  
  
"I SAID I was sorry."  
  
"And I forgive you."  
  
"Then why are you still pissy?'  
  
"Because. I'm a man. No matter what my brain says to my body, my libido will not always respond."  
  
"Do you mean that if I'd pushed a little more, you'd be in bed with me?"  
  
"I don't know about a bed, I thought the back seat looked pretty good."  
  
Rebecca's lips teased into a smile. "Did you know that that's part of the reason I bought this machine?"  
  
"Because the engine is powerful AND it's pretty enough to cruise in?"  
  
"No. Because it was the only convertible with a back seat big enough for sex."  
  
"Ah." Kurt blushed beneath his fur.  
  
"Are you sure you don't want to. . .test that theory?"  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"Is your-body-sure?"  
  
"No. But my mind is. And I have a lot of self-control."  
  
"Practiced in the Order, eh?"  
  
"Ja."  
  
"So when did you leave?"  
  
"The Church?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I never left the Church, I merely went back on my calling."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because it wasn't MY calling anymore. It wasn't what God wanted me to do."  
  
"And God wanted you to be a member of a violent crime fighting organization?"  
  
"Ja."  
  
"This God sounds pretty cool."  
  
"He is, liebshen."  
  
"I was kidding. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."  
  
"That's all right. Wolverine is agnostic, you know? I get plenty of worse jokes from him."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Do you believe?"  
  
"In my own way, I suppose. I think I see God in everything. I'm surprised Logan doesn't. It's difficult to see nature in the raw, powerful way he perceives it and not believe, or KNOW that Someone was there to create it."  
  
"You do not believe that one must go to Church to enter Heaven?"  
  
"Hell, I don't believe you've got to PRAY every day to get into Heaven. But it's a good thing to do. Gets you closer, you know? Closer to God."  
  
"And do you believe in the Holy Trinity?"  
  
"I believe that God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are one. Jesus said so, didn't He?"  
  
"Do you believe in the divinity of the Holy Mother?"  
  
"Mary? I believe that she was a beautiful representative of God's love to the world. But I don't think she's an icon to pray to. I think simple belief is enough."  
  
"So, you are Protestant."  
  
"Not exactly. I've been booted out on my backside from several Protestant homes, and there have been people who've told me that I was going to hell because I hadn't been baptized and all that unnecessary rot."  
  
"You are beginning to sound like your brother."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He hates it when we stand on ceremony."  
  
"No, he just hates authority figures."  
  
"That's probably true, too. But he doesn't like it when, for example, Ororo refers to Scott over a mission when SHE'S the leader of Gold Team, not HIM. Just because he was THE leader for so many years."  
  
"That DOES sound like Jono." She smiled, a little wistfully. "So, how do YOU know when God wants you to do something?"  
  
"He tells me."  
  
"Oh. He TELLS you?" she smirked.  
  
"I'm serious."  
  
"What does He sound like?"  
  
"Like my conscience."  
  
"Ah. And how do you know that it was God, and not your conscience? Or for that matter, your libido?"  
  
"You just know. God did not want me to be a priest, because He has other things in store for me. I assume that you have never heard God's voice?"  
  
"No, I don't think so." There was a long silence. "Are you sure you're not just schizo? Perhaps you should see a psychiatrist?"  
  
"Ha, ha, liebling. I am not crazy."  
  
"Famous last words." She shook her head.  
  
"I'll put it this way. I had a dog, some years ago, and she gave birth to a litter of three. Two days later, she died. So I found another female dog whose pups had died. She was of the same breed as my dog, and completely willing to take the pups as her own, and feed them. But they would not accept her, because she was not their mother. Their eyes were closed. But they could smell her. They knew she was not her mother. When God speaks to me, it is as if my spiritual eyes are closed, but I can. . .smell him."  
  
"Oh. I think I get it."  
  
"NOW do you believe me?"  
  
"Maybe. But it will take more than a good analogy to convince me entirely."   
  
"Perhaps you will be further convinced someday. But for now, why don't you turn around and head back to the Mansion?"  
  
"Because I want to go to Europe."  
  
"You said. . ."  
  
"I never said anything about going back to Salem Center. I don't want to be around all the X-Types. They-they intimidate me."  
  
"We WHAT?"  
  
"Not you, Kurt. Not you. The older X-Men. Worthington and Jean, the all-American perfection we-don't-kill, holier-than-thou Xavier freaks."  
  
"You know, Jean may be listening to this conversation."  
  
"No, she isn't. I put my shields up tight as soon as you mentioned her the first time."  
  
"Oh? And who else intimidates you?"  
  
"I think that's it. Just Warren and Jean. They don't like me very much, you know?"  
  
"What about Scott?"  
  
"Scott's had a harder time than he's let on. He understands. He doesn't judge too harshly, too quickly. But his wife does."  
  
"But if it's only them. . ."  
  
"Kitty, too."  
  
"Katchzen?!"  
  
"Yes. She doesn't like me. Then there's Monet, of course. And Sarah always saw me as a rival when it came to Sammy. Forge doesn't like me, much, either. Neither does Lorna."  
  
"That's a short list, compared to who DOES like you. And even if more don't, I know Logan's warmed up to you a lot more since you've come back. Maybe it's because he found out just how much you hated being married to Herr Creed, maybe it's because you showed him such a good time on your date last night-"  
  
"It WASN'T a date, Kurt. It was dinner with a friend."  
  
"And romantic dancing, and candlelight, and getting drunk, and kissing-"  
  
"Hey! I didn't kiss him!"  
  
"He kissed you?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Then you just slipped and your tongue just happened to fall into his mouth?"  
  
"I swear, Kurt! Nothing of the SORT happened. I already informed Victor that I wouldn't date Logan, if not only because he was my brother-in-law (however uninformed), but because I did not have any intention of falling into another feral trap. If THAT does not convince you that. . ."  
  
"All right," the indigo-furred German put his fingertips over his friend's lips. "That is quite enough. I believe you. It's only that Miss Lee seemed to think otherwise."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Last night, she asked her 'Wolvie' how his date went, and he snarled and avoided her."  
  
"He's his own man. He doesn't need taking care of."  
  
"Yes, but he always, ALWAYS tells her how his dates go, unless they went too badly or too well. Of course, in the latter instance, he does not usually return home until the following morning or afternoon, but you see how close the two are?"  
  
Rebecca grunted noncommittally. Then, she murmured, "It wasn't a date, and it was great. It wasn't too bad OR too good. It was fine. Eating, music, dancing, drinking. That's all it was."  
  
"Was it?" Kurt grinned. "Or maybe you should crawl into Logan's pants instead of trying to get into mine."  
  
"I don't WANT into Logan's pants."  
  
"Why not? He's rather handsome, don't you think?"  
  
"What are you, gay?"  
  
"No. What are YOU, homophobic?"  
  
"No, I'm not. In fact, this fellow I'm working with is gay. Chris Warden. That's why all the ladies want him."  
  
"If I were a woman, I would say, 'what a horrible loss to the breeding pool.'"  
  
"Then you ARE gay."  
  
"No. Not all Catholic priests are, you know."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"I'm not! Really."  
  
"Will you prove it to me?"  
  
"I've turned you down twice in the past twenty minutes. Are you REALLY asking for another?"  
  
"I haven't been turned down once in my life before you. I'm just reveling in the new sensation."  
  
"Well, revel while you can, because if you ask again, I might give in."  
  
"I'm shaking. Will you?"  
  
"No! I want to go home. You're going to drive me! WITHOUT coming on to me again." The tone of his voice was frantic, and his yellow eyes were wide.  
  
"Very well. You're no fun at all." She pouted.  
  
"Stop that."  
  
"No. It's your punishment for turning me down."  
  
"I thought you were reveling."  
  
"I was joking. I don't like being turned down."  
  
"I thought you'd only been turned down twice, and only by me."  
  
"Yes, but I've decided that I don't like it, because it makes me-hot!" she turned to him with a naughty smile.   
  
"Stop that. Ach, I'm getting too old for the ladies to be chasing me like I'm some kind of sex vending machine."  
  
"No strings attached, I'm saying. And both of us win."  
  
"Somehow I doubt that's possible with you."  
  
"Are you insulting my sexual prowess? Want to try me? Or shall I just kick your behind to South Carolina?"  
  
"No, no, and no. I'm not insulting your skill. I just want to go home before this insane (but undeniably hot) woman I'm in this car with starts hitting on me again."  
  
"Again?"  
  
"Yes, again. I came out here to get you to come home."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes. Now if you will just stop the car, I will leave."  
  
"I don't want you to leave." She sighed. "All right, I'll take you back home, and I'll stay until I can see my brother. Whatever." She rolled her eyes, took an illegal U-turn, and pretended to be surprised when sirens filled the air.  
  
XXX 


	8. The Repercussions of a Vivid Dream

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Eight: The Repercussions of a Vivid Dream  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
Continuity? What's that? This is an AU fic. Just remember that. Alternate Universe, loud and clear, eh?  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Flashback: Eleven Years Ago  
  
Rebecca POV  
  
"Hey, frail." Victor pulled himself off the floor and lumbered toward me, the golden muscles in his bare legs knotting with every step he took.  
  
"Don't call me that, Vic. You know I'm not." I pumped a single shell into the chamber of my sawed-off shotgun, my mind protesting at giving such a predictable retort. My hair dropped into my eyes, and I blew it away ineffectually.   
  
"Of course," He raised his hand and tucked it behind my ear, very gently, the calluses on the tips of his fingers just scarcely brushing the erogenous zone there.  
  
"Stop that." I pulled away slightly, sending my thick bangs back into my eyes. I set my mouth in a firm line. I didn't want him inside me, but I did want him to touch me.  
  
"No. Yer mine. I want ya." His voice was thick, rough with desire.  
  
"If I'm yours, you've already got me. Let's leave it at that." I drawled sarcastically, attempting to subliminate the primitive instincts he was arousing in me. Suddenly, he jammed his hand between my unclad thighs, then swiped it across his nose.  
  
"His stink's all over ya." He growled, referring to my latest lover. "It's muckin' up yer scent. It's pissin' me off"  
  
"Fuck that. You don't even CARE!"  
  
"I care. Ya belong ta me. I don't want ya ta be anyone else's." his lips were drawn back from ivory fangs in a snarl that only made me want his body against mine in ways I never thought I would. Why? When I detest him so? He ruined my life, took away so much of my free will. Controlled me for years. Made me obsess over him when I should have been too young to even consider looking at him in the way he was forcing me to.  
  
"Well, it's not your call, all right? My life is mine. My own. You don't care about me, and you never will, and neither of us have a problem with that. So why don't you just let me GO and find yourself a pretty whore to bed down with tonight." I turned away from him, not wanting to meet his eyes, knowing he could smell my desire as thickly as he could tell that another man had been between my legs.  
  
"Ain't one o' them ladies pretty as m' wife." He got up in a haze of contracting, hardening muscles. When neither of us wore anything, everything was that much simpler. Besides, it wasn't like I did anything that required clothes. And it wasn't like either of us had any secrets from one another. To us, or to him, at least, going about nude was not about degradation, nor was it about pride. It was about trust.  
  
"Well, you aren't getting anything from me." I shook my head lightly from side to side, denying to both of us that I was ready for him. Damn.  
  
"Why do ya say that?" he left the room and came back with two beers, tossed one to me. I uncapped the bottle and pressed the icy chill between my breasts, if only to have some frigid pain to concentrate on, as opposed to thoughts of body heat and big, golden, callused hands running over my skin like. . .Snap the fuck out of it, you stupid little fantasizing child!  
  
"Because I don't want you. That's all." I gulped the beer down, set it on my nightstand beside a lovely antique parlor lamp.  
  
"An' why don't ya?" his smile was hungry, all-knowing. He KNEW I wanted him, but he wouldn't say anything until I admitted to it.  
  
"Because you bore me, perhaps that's why?" I gave a complacent shrug, tossing my hair gently, then pulling it back so that instead of falling into my eyes, it hung down over my shoulders.  
  
"Was that a challenge?" a feral glint pierced through his present semblance of humanity.  
  
"Anything but," I tossed the shotgun across the room, and settled it telekinetically into the gentle embrace of a beautifully carved mahogany shelf, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. "Now, are you going to find a woman? Because if you aren't, I am occupying the bed tonight. I don't intend to use the couch if I don't have to. The damn thing has lumps in it."  
  
"If ya'd quit bein' so damned opinionated, I'd buy ya another one."  
  
"If you'd shut up every once in a while, I'd be able to hear myself think." I covered my temples and ears with my palms, trying to block his voice, his scent, the way watching how he moved affected my self-control in hideous ways.  
  
"Yeah, you an' half the fuckin' city." He muttered, just loud enough that I would hear both the random comment, and the thick desire in his voice.  
  
"Please, PLEASE, shut UP!"  
  
"Whatchya gonna do, darlin'? Tear yer own husband?" he loomed over me, tall and wide, six and a half feet of muscle and bone and blood.  
  
"I just might, if you refer to yourself as my spouse again tonight."  
  
There was a long silence in which I turned down the bed and slipped beneath the down comforter.  
  
"Beck?"  
  
"Yes,"  
  
"I ain't sleepin' on the couch."  
  
"Then join me, by all means. But be sure that you do not touch me, or I'll be forced to retaliate."  
  
"What if I make sure ya like gettin' touched?" his voice was lower than usual, and the proposition sounded far more inviting than any I'd ever heard, and I'd heard a lot of propositions. His hand slid across the bed and his fingertips, like molten sunlight, grazed my shoulder blade.   
  
"Just don't, Victor. I'm really not in the mood to be flirted with when there's no point to it." Because I was too much of a coward to wish to trifle with desire so strong it might constrain me to lose yet more of my heart to someone so heartless, I scooted away from his hand.  
  
"There is too a point."  
  
"That's right. There IS a point. Forgive me for not recognizing a man chasing after sex when I see one. Seriously. Please, I don't want to argue with you, either. You couldn't give a damn, and neither could I. Could we JUST please go to sleep?" that was the last thing I wanted to do, and the first thing I wanted to do was so far beyond naughty that even the Black Queen herself might have blanched in terror at the pure, banal carnality of my thoughts.  
  
"An' YOU want rest cause ya've been busy all day doin' WHAT?!" the rage, the possessive, unspoken cry of "MINE!" tore into my heart through his eyes.  
  
"Oh, come now, it isn't like you're the sole wage-earner. I was out busting my fucking behind making sure two little INTERPOL shites who think they're the Creator's gift to female-kind stayed off my track and hit on some do-gooder superhero women. Now why don't you just roll over to your side of the bed and let me get some rest?"  
  
"I wanna talk."  
  
"When the HELL do you ever REALLY want to talk, Victor? You want to fuck?"  
  
"Not now."  
  
That shocked me. I turned back toward him and propped my head up on my arm, my body now nearly flush against his. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Why should YOU care?"  
  
"Because this isn't like you. You're behaving oddly."  
  
"And what effect does that have on YOU?"  
  
I shrugged my shoulders in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. "Not much, I suppose, but if you're going to be moody and I want to be perky, that damages my schedule a little, don't you think?" I smiled a little, finally, and trailed the tip of my index finger down his nose. "Victor?"  
  
"I just ain't feelin' right. An' ya know how I make a point o' relyin' on my instincts?"  
  
"Nine times out of ten instinct is all you need to keep you alive, and the tenth time you back up instinct with explosives. I know, I know."  
  
"Seems like I ain't taught ya nothin', huh, darlin'?"  
  
"I'm not your darling, Victor. If you'd only stop calling me that." I turned away from him once more, but I had not the heart to struggle when he wrapped a powerful arm around my waist. He was warm, and I could feel his pulse, beating strongly and rapidly, just a little to the left of my navel. It was comfortable, the contact, his scent surrounding me, just breathing him in like this, knowing that I filled his senses, just as he was filling mine. But before I drifted off, I heard his hoarse, gentle whisper feathering against my ear.  
  
"Ya ARE mine, Beck. More'n ya'll ever know."  
  
XXX  
  
Present Day:  
  
"Natty?"  
  
"Rebecca? What the bloody hell are you DOING, calling me at this un-GOD-ly hour?"  
  
"I need some help."  
  
"What? Isn't the divorce going all right?"  
  
"Yes, it's fine. It came through perfectly well, and I'm still in New York State."  
  
"Then what's wrong?"  
  
"I don't know that what I'm doing is right."  
  
"Have you, then, finally changed your mind for the better and agreed to acquire the Summers Family genetic material for me?"  
  
"No. I mean in my personal life."  
  
"Can't let go of him, can you?"  
  
She paused for a moment, then sighed. "No, I can't. I know he's happy with her, but did I miss my boat in not making him happy with me?"  
  
"No! Certainly not!"  
  
"Really, Natty,"  
  
"Probably,"  
  
"Seriously."  
  
"Yes, almost certainly. I don't think you'll ever be able to have a healthy, exclusive, requited romantic involvement with Creed again. But there are always ferries. One doesn't have to take the steamboat."  
  
"Thanks for the delightful analogy. Who's the ferry?"  
  
"Who knows? Perhaps one of those charming Summers boys?"  
  
"Oh, please! Drop your fucking obsessive genetic plotting and give me some serious advice. I haven't anyone else, unless you wish to abandon me to the counsel of the unscrupulous Lady Vertigo?"  
  
"Oh, God! No! Anyone but HER!" Sinister's deep voice crooned over the telephone. "I, of all people, should know that she is the most promiscuous Marauder ever to walk the face of the earth, and I don't just mean of the females. I am quite certain that she gets more than even Riptide."  
  
"I knew that. After all, she WAS something of a. . .a nanny to me."  
  
"I wouldn't precisely put it that way."  
  
"Well, that's why I added the word 'SOMETHING.' I pity the fool who is her ultimate subordinate."  
  
"Would you pity him were he male?"  
  
"Of course. Because she is, as I said, unscrupulous."  
  
"What do you want to hear?"  
  
"I'm not sure. Maybe there's a clone somewhere to dildo St. Croix with while I get my husband back?"  
  
"Unfortunately, there isn't. I never had to clone the man, as he was always up at arms before any of us knew he was injured. But would you really do that?"  
  
"Probably not. I'm still not sure whether I'm completely UN-happy about this new infatuation he seems to be having with St. Croix?"  
  
"Then WHY are you calling me?"  
  
"I'm a mess, Nathaniel. I look horrid. When is the last time you saw me looking horrid?"  
  
"I. . .ah. . .I'm not sure. It could have been that time you broke every bone in your ribcage and nearly severed your spinal cord,"  
  
"The point is, you don't see me looking bad very often. And it takes a lot to get me there."  
  
"Yes, of course. You were always so concerned with your personal appearance."  
  
"Yes, I was. But that's not the point."  
  
"Isn't it?"  
  
"No, it isn't. My point is that simply from having a vivid memory dream, my psyche has been so shaken that I have not exited my room in ten days. TEN days!"  
  
"Because you look badly?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Have you eaten well? Has your weight dropped?"  
  
"No, it hasn't, because I moved into Xavier's and someone, leaves a plate of chili on my desk while I'm sleeping."  
  
"Whom do you think it is?"  
  
"Well I don't know. Especially when I consider how many people can pick locks without damaging them in this rotten household. It could be any number of people, but the amount of spice in it suggests LeBeau."  
  
"Old habits die hard."  
  
"Are you referring to his fraternal interest in my nourishment or his lingering practice of thievery?"  
  
"Well, both. He WAS, after all, the one who cared for you when all other X-Men shunned you."  
  
"He thought perhaps someone who had been your genetic thrall for twenty-some years might still be capable of emotion."  
  
"How DARE he? His experiences were far from traumatic."  
  
"No? You only duped him into leading you into the slaughtering-pits of the Morlock tunnels."  
  
"See? You still use MY terminology for the eradication of those antediluvian scum."  
  
"Damn it, Nathaniel, why do you insist on pushing my patience to the limit?"  
  
"You HAVE patience, patrie?"  
  
"Stop calling me that."  
  
"You used to laugh so much when I called you that, when you were a child."  
  
"Because that was my CHILD name. It's not my name any longer. Please, you're deviating."  
  
"What's the point of this call, my love?"  
  
"I'm confused. I didn't know who else to talk to. I'm sorry. I'll go now."  
  
"If you were anywhere but the Mansion, I would accompany you in your grief, but I know that as soon as I set foot in their hallowed halls, I would become target practice for every weapon known to man, from now until three thousand years in the future."  
  
"Aren't we the optimist? Maybe I can go somewhere else, to meet you?"  
  
"Central Park, the usual spot?"  
  
"When?"  
  
"Now. As soon as you can get there."  
  
"Why don't you pick me up? It will only take a moment."  
  
"Because there is not only one feral in the house, there are three. Logan, Creed, AND that younger one, Gibney."  
  
"Kyle's away. With Bishop. They're on some kind of pilgrimage to Shard."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Mm-hmm. So, I guess I'll just jump into the old Jag and meet you down there in a couple of hours."  
  
"All right. I'll see you then."  
  
"Bye."  
  
"Bye."  
  
XXX 


	9. Dinner Plans

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Nine: Dinner Plans  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Creed lay on his back with his arms folded beneath his head, watching his girlfriend write herself a Danger Room Program. She had just gotten back from her workout, and, as she had gotten bored with the standard Sims, she had decided to make herself a "real" challenge. Suddenly, she turned, her deep brown eyes knifing into his.  
  
"Victor?"  
  
"Yeah, babe?"  
  
"I don't feel very well."  
  
"Do ya mean physically, or. . ."  
  
"There's something tearing at my shields. Victor!" Monet's voice suddenly rose an octave, and she clutched at her head, falling from her office chair. In less time than it took to tell, Creed had leapt to his feet and was at her side.  
  
"What's wrong? Who is it?" he panicked when she went limp in his arms. "Damn it, Monet! Wake up, beautiful! Fuck!"  
  
Her eyelids fluttered open. "I'm. . .I'm all right. It was just a momentary attack."  
  
"Who was it?"  
  
"I'm not sure. I don't. . .I don't know. They were shielded so well. . ."  
  
"Was it a package?" he inquired, referring to a conventional psionic attack tactic utilized by non-psis, wherein years of emotional or physical anguish are "packaged" and hurled at the victim's mind.  
  
"No," Monet shook her head weakly. "Whoever it was could not have been mindblind. They knew what they were doing too well."  
  
"An' what were they doin'?"  
  
"They weren't scanning for information so much as tearing through my shields. Just to hurt me."  
  
"Ya couldn't tell who it was?"  
  
"No. I. . .I think it was a woman. But I'm not sure. There was so much violent backwash that it couldn't have been. I think it was a man. But you scarcely sense so much pain in a man. They get over emotional distress fairly quickly, and they don't use their own pain against an opponent. It must have been a woman."  
  
"Or a pansy."  
  
Monet cuffed her lover over the head lightly. "You are incorrigible."  
  
"But ya love me anyhow?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Where'd I be without ya?"  
  
"Unhappily married to an aging mercenary."  
  
"Hey. That agin' mercenary's at least two years younger'n you. An' our marriage wasn't a COMPLETE disaster. There were some good times."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"If you mean sex, that doesn't qualify."  
  
"There was bondin', though, too. Not nearly as much as we did, but. . .there were good times. Fun times."  
  
"For example?"  
  
"I ain't tellin' my woman 'bout my ex-wife. Why the hell should I?"  
  
"Because every relationship is built on honesty. If there is no honesty, there can be no meaningful relationship."  
  
"Fine, if it means that much to ya." Victor shrugged, easing Monet onto the bed beside him, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her long hair. "Well, fer instance, when Beck was feelin' exceptionally flirty, we used ta tussle, friendly-like. There were a lot o' late-night conversations, cause we were both on-an'-off insomniacs. 'Sides, our jobs went late."  
  
"What sorts of things did you talk about, then?"  
  
"Life. Blood. Never our relationship."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Mostly 'cause she resented th' fact that we were in a relationship at all."  
  
"Oh." Monet shifted in his arms, and straddled him, so she could look into his eyes. "So why DID you have a relationship, then?"  
  
"'Cause it was th' best way ta protect her."  
  
"From what? Her patron is Mr. Sinister, for crying out loud!"  
  
"That name don't carry too much weight in th' merc world, an' Beck wanted ta be a merc. Sure, Essex learned 'er up good an' proper, so's she could cook up a clone in five minutes'r so, but she wanted ta kick butt."  
  
"So you married her so people would be afraid of her?"  
  
"Yeah. That too."  
  
"What else?"  
  
"I guess. . ." he sighed, averted his eyes from Monet's. "I thought I loved her fer a bit. Not just a bit. Fer a long time. Ever since she was jest a pup, I felt like I needed ta protect her. She was always so small, ya know?"  
  
"Victor, everything's small to you." Monet lifted a brow suggestively, hoping to lighten the mood. But her lover only sighed.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So your name is well-respected in the mercenary community?"  
  
"More like well-feared."  
  
"And if a mercenary is feared, their relations are, as well?"  
  
"Not just that. I always get the job done, no matter what. I had a good rep. Mercs knew I was good, an' th' ones what hire mercs knew I was th' best. They hear th' name Creed, they automatically think quality."  
  
"Ah, that might have been your service logo. 'Creed means quality.'"  
  
"Sounds too much like Graydon's banner."  
  
"That's right. 'Creed means equality.'"  
  
A pained look came to Victor's eyes, but was rapidly extinguished. "Yeah. Hey, you up fer a date tonight?"  
  
"Sure. Where are we going?"  
  
"Th' Four Seasons."  
  
XXX  
  
"Damn you, Nathaniel."  
  
"Well, you were correct."  
  
"Damn straight I was. Vic cares about her more than you can ever truthfully say he cared about me. That tiny attack was enough to send him into pre-cardial arrest."  
  
"As if Creed were capable of such distress."  
  
"He IS capable of it."   
  
"All right, I'll give him that."  
  
"I'm never acting on another of your silly hypotheses again!" Rebecca tugged the baseball cap further down over her eyes and stalked away from Sinister.  
  
"It was an experiment. You damaged Miss St. Croix's shields the perfect amount for her to panic, and not enough to cause any real damage, if only to find out what Creed's reaction to it would be. And you know that he loves her."  
  
"Well, thank you for helping me state the obvious. If he ever finds out that I did that. . ."  
  
"He won't." Sinister interrupted her. "He won't."  
  
"Why are you so sure?"  
  
"You know, you really DO look a mess."   
  
"Nice try changing the subject."  
  
"The subject was paining you. I didn't feel as though it were necessary to put you through any further turbulence of mind."  
  
"How solicitous of you." She smiled an ersatz smile.  
  
"Why don't we go shopping."  
  
"Now you're REALLY desperate. Where do you suggest we go?"  
  
"Fifth Avenue, my love."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because we're going out for dinner tonight."  
  
"Excuse me? Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no! I certainly hope you aren't formulating the same plan in your devious little mind as I believe you are formulating."  
  
"Oh, but I am."  
  
"I'm not going."  
  
"Oh, come now! What woman could resist an evening on Nathaniel Essex at the Four Seasons?"  
  
XXX 


	10. All the Things She Said

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Ten: All the Things She Said  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
Oh, yeah, and the title is taken from that Tatu song. I don't actually like them, but it just seemed to fit perfectly with the whole idea of this chapter.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Victor Creed squirmed in his suit, despising the chrome-hued jacket and slacks he wore, despising the black leather belt spanning his waist, despising the navy-blue button-up shirt he wore, and the pinch-toed dress shoes constricting his feet. But most of all, he despised the golden silk tie around his throat, tight and strangling, much like a noose. Creed hated nooses. Once, in Serbia…but he preferred not to dwell on such things. At least Monet was looking beyond edible in that shimmering evening gown that matched the very tie he so hated. It slit high up to her thighs on both sides, and the mile-high heels she was in showed off her yards-long legs to a fantastic advantage. Though he was having a little trouble restraining himself, especially with her hand creeping up his leg like that, he managed to keep to himself for the duration of the limousine ride.  
  
The things he loved about Monet was that, though she spoke continuously and yet made not attempt to actually enter a real conversation with him, the things she said made sense, and her voice was low and a little smoky, which, combined with her soft, lisping French accent, lent her an understatedly sexy aura.  
  
And it was their six-month anniversary. Victor had it all planned out, and the little episode that morning had made it only that much easier to persuade her to show herself in her full regalia. First, there would be dinner at the Four Seasons, dancing at the hottest new club in the city, Blue Diamonds, then passionate sex at a suite in the Plaza, where he'd give her an anniversary gift he could only hope she'd love. Even that overly romantic little turd of a Summers would be impressed.  
  
"Victor?" Monet squeezed his leg gently, which nearly had him jumping out of his skin, "What are you thinking, mon amour?"  
  
He grinned and took her hand in his, if only to remove it from his thigh, and raised it to his lips. "I'm thinkin' that I hope yer hungry, beautiful."  
  
"So I am. And look, here we are." She smiled. They had indeed arrived, and the valet pulled the limo door open in a single smooth movement. Victor climbed out, turned to take his girlfriend's hand, and led her up the walk, through the doors, which were scrupulously opened. They had little trouble at the Maître d's, and were directly escorted toward a table.  
  
The scents in the air were mixed and a little disconcerting, but something caught Creed's nose the moment he stepped inside. While Monet perused the menu, he glanced anxiously about himself. *It can't be. It can't. Argh, damn the woman!* as he turned to his left, he spotted her.  
  
Rebecca. Wearing a dress of muted wine with a plunging neckline and long, wide sleeves. The skirt cut off at mid-thigh and rode dangerously high as she drummed the heels of her six-inch stilettos on the carpet. She looked-well, beautiful. Her eyes were highlighted with careful and subtle detail, her cheekbones sculptured and classic in the soft light, her lips, lusciously painted in 30s cabaret red. . .  
  
And she wasn't alone, either. Victor felt a low growl build in his chest as he sighted the man opposite her. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and had dark skin and a halo of curly brown hair. His eyes were deep, foresty green and his jaw was square and modelesque. He was tall and of medium, athletic build. He was certainly very good-looking, with sharp, precise, bad-boy features and a presence about him that Creed was sure a vast majority of women would appreciate, including Rebecca.  
  
He didn't know the man's scent, so it was nominally safe to assume he was not a mercenary or an Operative for some random government nosing round Rebecca for information.  
  
They looked to be engrossed in deep conversation, and from what Creed could register, they both were fairly interested physically in one another. When the schmuck reached across the table and touched Rebecca's hand, it was all Creed could to restrain himself from leaping up and decapitating him. . .  
  
"Victor? Mon amour, what's wrong? You seem so preoccupied," Monet asked softly, sliding her foot up Victor's leg. He instantly came to attention, and the fixed snarl that had begun to assert itself on his face vanished rapidly.  
  
"Oh, Monet! Whatch'ya want, beautiful?"  
  
"I've ordered. The waiter would like to take your selection, mon amour."  
  
"Oh, I'll have the same as her, an' bring around a bottle o' Don Perignon while yer at it, willya?" he said quickly, fighting the urge to snap out his claws and disembowel the man opposite his ex-wife.  
  
As the waiter left with his ridiculous, mincing trot, Monet tapped his hand. "Is that Rebecca?"  
  
"Yeah," Victor replied, without looking around.  
  
"You smelled her and you didn't. . .oh my. Who is she with?" her voice dropped an octave, signifying interest.  
  
"Dunno. Some bastard unfortunate enough ta deceive himself inta believin' she's actually interested in 'im."  
  
Monet grinned. "You're so bitter, Victor. One would hardly guess by the way you familiarly banter with her!"  
  
"I ain't bitter. I'm jest concerned."  
  
"For Rebecca? Or for the 'unfortunate bastard'?"  
  
Victor snorted. "Ain't sure."  
  
"From their surface thoughts, they seem to be enjoying themselves."  
  
"Don't scan 'er!" Victor cautioned, but too late. Rebecca had already turned, and noticed both of them. Her scent became alarmed, and she abruptly seized a menu and buried her face in it.  
  
"She seems rather discomfited at having been detected," observed Monet.  
  
"Let's just leave 'er alone." Suggested Victor.  
  
"Well that would hardly be fair, let's politely introduce ourselves, and I want to meet her date!"  
  
"It ain't none o' our business!"  
  
"What if he's a Skrull, or a member of the FoH?"  
  
"I'm sure Beck can handle herself just fine."  
  
"But mon amour," Monet pouted prettily. So because Victor also wanted to meet her date (primarily to castrate and torture him), he grunted and helped her stand up. They meandered their way across the restaurant floor, and confronted the couple.  
  
"Evenin', Beck. Fancy meetin' you here."  
  
"Victor! Miss St. Croix! I hadn't noticed you," Rebecca lied easily. "Guillaume, darling, I'd like for you to meet Victor Creed and Monet St. Croix. Miss St. Croix went to school with my brother, and I've known Victor since I was nearly a child. Vic, Monet, this is Guillaume l'Rivière."  
  
The young man stood and shook Victor's, then Monet's hands coolly, ignoring the over firm grip Creed was forcing on him with expressionless politesse. When he spoke, his voice was like liquid sex, dropping suggestively when there was nothing to suggest, in an accent as familiar as the morning sun to both Victor and Monet. "Bonjour, mes amis. It's all a pleasure. Woul' y' like t' join us fo'e dinner?"  
  
Monet gave him a charming smile. "We'd hate to intrude. Besides, it's our six-month anniversary,"  
  
"Oh, well, den. Congratulations, M'sieu' Creed, Mademoiselle St. Croix."  
  
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Rebecca's voice was ever-so-mildly reprimanding. Victor felt like throwing her against a wall and giving her a good, stern talking-to. What or who the hell did she think she was?  
  
"I suppose," Monet was already taking her polite leave of them, so Victor exchanged another frigid handshake with l'Rivière, and escorted her back to their table.  
  
Victor, what the fuck are you doing here? the frantic psionic channel opened without warning, but Creed managed to cover his alarm.  
  
Sorry 'bout yer date, but Monet an' I are here celebrating our anniversary,  
  
Oh, ARE you?  
  
Do ya really think yer so important as that? That I'd stalk ya, use my anniversary as an excuse just ta see ya? How low do ya think I'll go, Beck? How fuckin' low? Cause I'm sure I can meet and surpass any expectations ya have o' me. Just try me.  
  
Hey, you think YOU'RE frustrated? I haven't seen Guillaume in years, all right? And the moment I do, you and M come charging into the very place we're having some decent, civilized conversation.  
  
Who the hell IS this guy, Beck?  
  
Just a friend.  
  
Oh? Just a friend. With a Cajun accent? An' intonations like LeBeau? I don't think so.  
  
Yes, he's just a friend. So what if Gambit introduced me to him? We get along a lot better than you and I. Now, we've finished eating, and we're just going to get drinks. Can I trust that this will be the end of your evening with Monet? I'm meeting Natty later at Blue Diamonds for a few.  
  
Sinister?  
  
It's a completely harmless meeting.  
  
S'what I was told when I joined the Marauders,  
  
Oh, fuck off!  
  
Ya can't go ta Blue Diamonds. Monet an' I'll be there.  
  
Fine, I'll just call him and tell him to meet me at the Mansion. Oh, and I'll remind him of a certain dumb arse feral who somehow manages to fuck up his best-laid plans.  
  
See, now yer just braggin' about Logan.  
  
Rebecca rolled her eyes mentally. Shove it. So where am I supposed to go, then? I can't very well just go home before my evening's out.  
  
Sure ya can! Yer single, ya don't have no obligations.  
  
I'm single, that's WHY I'm out here. I'm thirty-fucking-three, Vic, I need to reassert myself as a woman before this divorce starts wearing out my ego. Yes, that's right, you did something to dent it. Are you proud of yourself?  
  
Victor swore under his breath. I thought this was a mutual thing, Beck. Dammit, I thought you wanted out as much as I did!  
  
Who says I didn't?  
  
Don't even try that one on me, Beck. Yer talkin' in yer own personal lil' code, an' ya ferget that I deciphered it a long time ago. It ain't gonna work. So yer unhappy. How's that my fault? I was the one who initiated th' relationship, an' you were the one bitchin' about it fer sixteen fuckin' years!  
  
Fuck you, Creed, her psi-voice turned frigid and she pulled abruptly out of his mind. Victor saw her, as though in a dream, touch her date's hand and murmur something to him. He heard something to the effect of "I have to use the restroom," and watched her get up and leave. But she wasn't going to the restroom. She was running away, pure and simple. Vic locked eyes with Monet.  
  
"Lissen, darlin', I don't want Beck ta do anythin' stupid. I know she's got somethin' with more'n average firepower in her stockin's, an' she's just left the building angry. Can ya manage fer a few without me?"  
  
"I thought you said she could handle herself," Monet whispered snidely, describing a circle around the lip of her crystal champagne flute.  
  
"From the scents I'm pickin' up, she ain't so stable as I thought. Gimme a second?"  
  
"Of course,"   
  
"I love ya," Victor rose quickly and followed Rebecca outside, watched her don a long, fur-trimmed overcoat and trot outside, request a cab from the doorman. "Beck! Beck, damn it! What th' hell do ya think yer doin'?"  
  
"Leaving."  
  
"Ta where?"  
  
"The mansion, you stupid fuck, where do you THINK I'm going?" she hissed.  
  
"Ya can't usually tell, with you. An' what about your date?"  
  
"He knows what I do. He'll understand."  
  
"But I don't."  
  
"What don't you understand, Vic? That I want to fall in love again or that you dented my ego? Because to me, those are the only two issues I can see." She looked very pale, perhaps about to faint.  
  
"I see two issues, too, Beck, an' those ain't them," Victor steadied her shoulders with his big, golden hands. "I see you tryin' ta make something different of a life ya won't let go of, an' I see ya tryin' ta get over me. The thing I don't understand is why th' hell would ya need ta get over me if ya never felt anything fer me in the first place?"  
  
"Who says I didn't?" she inquired coldly, her voice not revealing a single nuance of emotion. "Who says I never loved you? Who says it didn't devastate me when you left? For a woman who's always made it her priority to remind me that I was about as low down as shit, no less."  
  
"What, so ya think Monet's just with me fer some screwed-up hatred she's always had fer you? Ya think she only says she loves me cause she don't like you?"  
  
"Did I say that? No. I didn't. I just said she never liked me. Hell, she made Jono believe anything she wanted, why the hell shouldn't she manipulate you?" a cab pulled in, and the doorman opened for her. "I don't care about your damn relationship with Monet, Victor. I do care about you, no matter what you think, and I'd like it very much if you'd not ask me why my behavior is so irrational tonight. I think I need to do more field-work. I've gotta go. I love you, Victor." She refused to make eye-contact with him as she slid into the cab and slammed the door behind her. It drove off into the eddying traffic just as Creed's mind was beginning to process just what he had heard.  
  
Stumbling back into the restaurant, he sat heavily in his seat. Rebecca's date was gone. He idly noted the entrées had arrived. Monet was smiling at him as though he'd never left. There was nothing different about his life. Nothing. Damn, he was in denial.  
  
"No," he murmured angrily.  
  
"No what, mon amour?" Monet inquired, taking one of his hands in both of hers. "What happened? Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine."  
  
"Shall we eat?"  
  
"How's about a toast?" he forced himself to form the words. Hell, it was only polite to give a decent toast on his first six-month anniversary since God-knew-when.   
  
Monet smiled and lifted her filled champagne glass, making some flowery speech Victor scarcely listened to and which stretched over five minutes or more. All he could say was that it ended in "To us," and that they both drained their flutes.  
  
For the remainder of the evening, the only words he really heard were the ones repeating in his head, accompanied by the unusual desperation in Rebecca's stormy blue eyes. All he heard was, "I love you, Victor,"  
  
And he couldn't say, truthfully, that he didn't love her in return.  
  
XXX 


	11. Southern Comfort

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Eleven: Southern Comfort  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Sam Guthrie was sitting at his laptop staring at the message his mother had sent him. Dear God. Caroline, his little Carrie, his baby sister, was mutating. She had been run over by a truck, and had come through unscathed. No one was really sure whether her skin had gone solid like Paige's or whether she'd just healed up quickly. Well, she'd be on her way to Xavier's Elementary soon enough. Now that mutants were coming up faster and younger than ever, there were now three schools; Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning, Xavier High School for the Gifted, and Xavier Elementary. "All foah the best, Ah suppose," he murmured, wondering how many more of his siblings would come into brand-new mutations over the years.  
  
"And what would that be?" a female, slightly husky voice startled him, and he swiveled in his office chair. Rebecca laughed quietly, stepping out of the corner she'd been watching him form for the past few seconds. "You left the door open. I invited myself in." as her face came into the light, Sam could see her smeared make-up and the black mascara tear-streaks spread across her cheeks.  
  
"Soleil! What happened?"  
  
"I'm all right, Sammy. I just need a few minutes before I face anyone."  
  
"Yoah facin' me."  
  
She rolled her eyes, "Really, I should think that you'd know a needy woman when you see one, you being such a chival and all," she flopped down on his mattress.  
  
"I wondah what Paige'd say if she saw yah here," he wondered idly.  
  
Rebecca laughed again, but this time it sounded more genuine, less forced. "Remember that time we visited Generation X together? She had a damn cow! I mean, just the thought of us in the same car together for fourteen hours was enough to drive her up the wall!"  
  
"Yeah, Ah remember." He put his computer to sleep and moved to sit beside her. "Those were the days, weren't they?"  
  
"They sure were," she whispered, scooting into his body. His arms opened easily, and she slid into them, resting her head on his shoulder. "She just didn't get our relationship, did she?"  
  
"Nah, Ah guess not." He shrugged. "What the hell, Ah nevah did, eithah."  
  
"Oh?" she sat up straight, looked him in the eyes. "What didn't you get?"  
  
"Why yah nevah fell head ovah face foah mah irresistible charms." The witticism was greeted by a deadened punch on the shoulder. "Seriously, Soleil, everythin' was jest so. . .simple foah yah. Yah nevah asked anythin' from me besides mah friendship an' emotional support."  
  
"I don't like asking for anything more than that," she replied quickly. "But you know that."  
  
"Yeah, Ah know. So how come yoah cryin'?"  
  
"I can't say."  
  
"Oh? Are yah on yoah tahme o' th' month?"  
  
"No, it's not that I don't know what's wrong, it's that I can't tell you."  
  
"Whahevah not?"  
  
"Because. It's so silly and adolescent," she shrugged. "And besides, it'll have detrimental impact on the way you see me."  
  
"The only impact it can have is meh seein' yah as a human bein' or a woman instead o' some driven, emotionless merc." Sam pulled her into his lap, licking his thumb and wiping streaks of mascara off her face.  
  
"I suppose," she pursed her lips a little. "And if I should tell anyone, it would most certainly be you. . ."  
  
"So?"  
  
"I ran into Victor and Monet tonight at the Four Seasons,"  
  
"Were yah alone?"  
  
"No, I was with Guillaume. Do you remember him?"  
  
"Guillaume l'Rivière?"  
  
"Yes,"  
  
"What were yah doin' with him? Ah thought yoah relationship with him ended a long tahme ago!"  
  
"It was a purely platonic meeting. He's moving to the City, and wanted me to celebrate with him."  
  
"Heh, all them Guilders think a nahght at some snooty restaurant classifies as celebratin'."  
  
"No, the dinner wasn't the party. I'm going to his apartment this weekend for his housewarming shebang."  
  
"If Gambit trained that boy rahght, there ain't gonna be no party. It's jest gonna be you, him, an' at least eighteen bottles o' wine."  
  
"Bullshit, Sammy. Guillaume isn't like that. He knows we're over. Completely over."  
  
"So this ain't about Guillaume, then." Sam but his lower lip, and looked up suddenly. "It's about Creed, ain't it?"  
  
"What?!" Rebecca's stormy blue eyes pierced up into his. "Where would you get THAT from?"  
  
"Yoah obviously upset, Sol. That's pretty much th' only thing left foah me ta guess at, wouldn't yah say?"  
  
"I guess so."  
  
"So, yoah not ovah Creed, huh?"  
  
"No, I'm not. And I don't know why! It's silly! Maybe my time of month IS coming along, and I'm just getting all emotional over nothing."  
  
"That can't be rahght. Yoah nevah emotional on yoah tahme. Yoah jest homocidal's all."  
  
"You're so supportive," she rolled her eyes, stood up, rammed her fingers through her hair. "I don't want to make him unhappy or indecisive. And if he's with Monet, and he's happy, that's fine. I'll just have to get over myself."  
  
"Yoah gonna hurt yoahself even moah if yah do that,"  
  
"I'm thirty-three, Sammy, I know that already."  
  
He put his hands up in a gesture of submission. "Ah wasn't sayin' yoah stupid, Sol. Ah. . .Ah jest wanna help."  
  
"I. . ." she hesitated, turned her eyes away from his. "I don't know that you can, Sammy, I don't think anyone can, not anymore."  
  
"Maybe theah's some way. . .Ah could take yoah mahnd offa Creed," he whispered, rising to stand behind her. She turned, eyes wide and reprimanding. Sam shook his head and laughed. "Nah, Ah don't mean that, Sol. Ah jest meant. . .maybe instead o' talkin' it out, we should go watch a movie or somethin'. Ta take yoah mahnd offa. . .everythin' else." He sighed as she moved backward into his protective embrace.  
  
"That'd be. . .wonderful temporary relief, Sammy. I'd love to take in a film with you," she turned in his arms, locked her hands behind his neck. "You know I would have gone and commiserated with Rogue over several bottles of scotch if you hadn't left your door unlocked?"  
  
Sam blushed. "Yoah THAT torn up about this, huh?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Hey, Ah've got an idea. How would yah feel about sharin' that scotch with me?" he brushed his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away more smudged eye-makeup.  
  
"Sure. But ah. . .could I ask you a favor?"  
  
"Of course,"  
  
"I need to borrow your bathroom, a pair of boxers, and a wife beater."  
  
The External grinned widely. "So yoah gonna take tah wearin' mah underclothes again?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess I am. For southern comfort, you know?" she winked. "Go get the scotch and choose a film. Find something gruesome and lighthearted. With Bruce Willis in it. Oh! And make sure the chick in it is someone kick-arse, all right?" she backed away from the warmth of his body.  
  
"Will do, Sol."  
  
"Hey, Sammy?" she turned back just before stepping into the bathroom.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Ah know, Sol. Ah love yah, too."  
  
XXX  
  
Victor Creed lay on his back with Monet snuggled up on top of him, basking in the afterglow of passion. "Monet, beautiful?"  
  
"Yes, Victor?"  
  
"I've got somethin' for ya."  
  
"Oh, can it wait until morning?" she groaned. 'You've finally managed to exhaust me," she giggled quietly, stroking his chest lightly.  
  
"Ya've got ta have it before midnight, or it ain't an anniversary gift no more."  
  
Monet sat up straight. "You got me an anniversary gift?! B. . .but. . .I didn't get YOU anything!"  
  
"Just promise ta wear it an we're even," Creed grinned lasciviously. Monet's eyebrows drew together.  
  
"It's lingerie, isn't it?"  
  
Creed laughed loudly, chest shuddering as he pealed out rich notes of hilarity. "No, beautiful, it ain't trashy underwear. Lemme jest get up an' find it." He rolled out of bed, and reached into his jacket pocket, tugging out the small black shagreen jewelry box. He hid it in his hand until Monet was again nestled on his chest. He pulled her in for a long, deep kiss, and slipped it into her hand. "Happy six-month anniversary, Monet St.Croix," he purred, and moved back to gauge her reaction.  
  
Her deep brown eyes were wide and wondering, with that sexy, curious sort of expression she'd had the first time they'd made love. It was getting increasingly difficult to put that particular look on her face, and Creed was reveling in every moment of it. Her long, aristocratic fingers first toyed with the box, then curved around it and lifted the top. "Oh, Victor!"   
  
Nestled within the white, jewelry-shop cotton was a twisty, bejeweled golden choker, with alternating emeralds and amethysts, her favorite precious stones. Creed lifted it from the box and fastened it around her neck. It became her particularly. "That ain't all, beautiful," he pulled the layer of cotton from the box, and beneath was a set of matching earrings and a ring.  
  
"You shouldn't have, mon amour!" she murmured, "Oh, I feel so guilty for not getting you anything!"  
  
"I told ya, just wear 'em! An' only them. An' we're even." He smiled, watched her lovingly fasten the earrings on and slip the ring onto her right middle finger. As she leant in for a kiss, he brushed the jewelry box off the bed and slid his hands up her thighs, to her waist, and sat her on top of himself. "I love ya, Monet. I do," he whispered, his voice hoarse.  
  
"Oh, Victor," she sighed. "I. . .I love you too, so much. So much. I'll never let go of you," she moved her hips against his, swallowing his moan of pleasure as their lips met again.  
  
*Damned if that don't sound like a prison sentence,* Creed thought fleetingly, but quashed the notion before it was able to gain firm ground in his mind.  
  
XXX  
  
Jonothon Evan Starsmore crept into the living-room of Mansion X soundlessly. He'd overridden the outside codes without disturbing a soul, and was on his way up to his room, if he could still find it after having been away from home for so long. As he passed, he noted that the television was on. He shrugged. Someone or other had fallen asleep in front of the telly without bothering to turn it off. That was a common enough happening, as there were several demi-insomniacs within the ranks of both the X-Men and X-Cell.  
  
He crept nearer to the sofa to verify the identity of the individual, or, in this case, individuals, as he could see two bodies in the darkness, limbs entwined in an ostensibly platonic posture. The male figure he easily identified as Sam Guthrie, External extraordinaire and brother to his ex-girlfriend, Paige, if the young farm-girl could have ever been called such. And the second. . .if Jonothon had been able to suck in his breath, he would have. The second figure was a woman, and wore a face from some of his sweetest dreams and most intense nightmares.  
  
Rebecca.  
  
She looked older, of course, and there were only the mildest of lines at the corners of her eyes. She aged slowly, he supposed. Perhaps it was because she smiled so rarely. Perhaps life had been harder on her than it had been on him. But she was beautiful, more so than he could ever have imagined.  
  
She'd lost a lot of weight over the years; where once there were voluptuous curves was now only fine, pale skin stretched over stringy, rangy muscle. She was wearing Sam's clothes, and on her feet were his oversized socks. Jonothon felt his semi-rebuilt chest heave, not with breath or a sigh, but only because it seemed natural for it to do so. She was here. She was his sister. Oddly enough, he felt as though she should perhaps be Sam's, or someone else's. Hell, he hadn't spoken with her in over sixteen years!  
  
But he loved her. So much.   
  
Hefting his duffel bag, he headed toward the elevator, and as the doors closed, he thought perhaps he should take a few moments to notify Jubilee that he was home. She always liked to be woken up, these days, as her dreams were filled with horrific sights and psychic oppression due to her continual psionic development. But no, the last person he wanted to deal with was the last woman he'd dated regularly in three years, and if he went up to speak with her, they'd be up for hours, and he was tired. And if he fell asleep in her bed, the rumors would fly that they were back together, and he didn't want to admit to himself that he wouldn't mind that happening.  
  
*To hell with it,* he twitched his lips, *I'll see both o' me gels in th' mornin'.* he really wanted to sigh, and considered trying to rebuild his lungs the way he considered it all the time; nonchalantly and rather objectively, as though it were to happen to someone else instead of to him.  
  
The elevator stopped at his floor, and as he stepped out, he nearly collided with someone else. Jubilee!  
  
Hey, Starsmore, she flashed him one of her trademark perky smiles, uncommonly brilliant for the late/early hour. It's great to see you home.  
  
It's great ter BE 'ome, luv, he schooled his lips into a smile as opposed to merely crinkling his eyes, the way he was accustomed to. Wot're yer doin' up?  
  
I've been up all night. I had a long nap. It's all right. When you called at nine, I figured I should stay up and wait for you.  
  
Wot?  
  
Hey, I like to be thought of as a good team leader. After all, Cyke would do the same.  
  
Not if 'e knew that I 'ad an escort from the airport, me own limo, an' th' option o' gettin' an 'otel room if I so desired, 'e wouln't.  
  
"Whatever, Starsmore," she muttered audibly. He caught her arm in his free hand.  
  
'Ow come yer never call me Jono anymore?  
  
Don't I?  
  
Not since we broke up.  
  
"I'm too tired to have this conversation, Starsmore."  
  
See? There yer go again.  
  
"How about this: Goodnight, Jono. I'll see you in the morning."  
  
Hey, I know wot'd make it a REALLY good night!  
  
"I'm not looking for casual sex, Jon." She retorted, sleep-deprived eyes flashing in a startlingly good rendition of her mentor.  
  
Neither'm I. But we could get a coupl'a photographs o' Sammy'n Soleil cuddlin' on th' couch. I thought yer were well-trained in practical jokes by th' Iceman 'imself!  
  
Oh! In THAT case. . . Jubilee's smile turned so evil it nearly frightened Jono out of his pants.  
  
Damn, but yer looked diabolical just there, luv!  
  
"Would you have me any other way?"  
  
Most certainly not, he grinned, and scrambled to fetch his camera.  
  
XXX 


	12. Of Aliens and Elder Brothers

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twelve: Of Aliens and Elder Brothers  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
The room was ovalesque, made entirely of what appeared to be glass, but which was in fact a transparent sort of plastic that let none in and fewer out. The room was filled with computers and nanotechnology of a supremely advanced race, from which thousands of wires spewed forth, attaching themselves to a central mechanism. This mechanism was another oval, about seven by four feet, bowl-like, and had a transparent cover similar to the enclosure itself. Within lay a man, about six feet tall, one hundred ninety-five pounds, wearing what seemed to be a set of body-armor. In fact, it was a bionic computer vestal, which monitored his heartbeat, pulse, and other such bodily functions.  
  
A woman stood on either side of the said coffin. The one on the left was about five foot eight inches tall, and maybe in her early to mid-thirties with long, red hair and the greenest, most piercing emerald eyes this side of the galaxy. She was beautiful, and had a figure to die for, and though her posture was indicative of sorrow, she held herself with a dignity that signified an indomitable will.  
  
The other woman was a little older, perhaps late thirties to early forties, and she held her head higher yet than the other. She was taller, and slimmer, with shiny black hair that wasn't really hair. It was feathers, feathers that curved smoothly away from her forehead in straight, elegant spikes about a foot in length. Her eyes were intense violet, stormy and turbulent. There were inky black lines that began at the corners of her eyes, and separated to curl upwards around her brows and downwards over her strong cheekbones. Her jaw was delicately structured, but firm, with the sort of majestic elegance one might expect from royalty. Because she WAS royalty. Her name was Lilandra Neramani, Majestrix of the Shi'ar Empire.  
  
The man within the coffin was speaking in a low, calm voice that radiated comfort, but the words he was saying were evidently what was distressing the two women who attended him so carefully.  
  
"There is nothing that can be done, you know," he murmured, in an accent that could only have been cultured at Oxford, "I'm losing control, and we all know what might happen were I to completely lose my command on reality." He laughed quietly. "You know, you really should just listen to me, unplug all these silly machines, and jettison me into space."  
  
"Don't joke that way, Professor!" the redheaded woman murmured, slipping her hand into his. "We love you too much to allow anything like that to happen."  
  
"You ARE the only one disagreeing with my plan, Jean," Lilandra said quickly, then turned to the man "Though we are no longer wed, Charles, you know that the last thing I would do is harm you. In any way. I. . .I love you."  
  
"As I love you, my darling. But there is nothing else for it. The X-Men are doing splendidly. They're much stronger without me, you know? I've trained them well, and there's not much more I COULD do for them. Jean's mutation is under control; she is nearly as powerful as I." He sighed a little. "It may take some getting used to, though. . ."  
  
"But Professor. . ." the redheaded women argued, her chest heaving with scarcely-repressed emotion, "We DO need you! We. . .I couldn't imagine going on without. . .without that peace of mind you give!"  
  
"We both know there's nothing else for it," Charles went on, not bothering to acknowledge the woman's outburst. "Jean, you could relay my utmost apologies to them, couldn't you?"  
  
"They'll believe you'd abandoned them! You're the only thing keeping The Dream alive! Even some of the senior members of the X-Men are beginning to doubt themselves!"  
  
"It isn't as though I'm going to be dead, Jean. There's nothing else for it." He repeated, more slowly this time, as though he were speaking to an errant child.  
  
"I got a relay from Scott yesterday. Soleil Étoile is back in New York." Jean's voice turned frigid as she changed the subject.  
  
"Oh? How is she taking this sudden emergence of her husband's relationship with M?"  
  
"They've gotten a divorce. A very affable one, so I've been told."  
  
"And Chamber?"  
  
"He's still in Japan, I think. But Soleil was looking for you. You were the first person she asked for when she got back."  
  
"Was I? What was she told?"  
  
"The truth." Jean replied quickly, then added, in a timorous tone, "I think."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"Yes. Scott wasn't very forthcoming. I suppose he believed she shouldn't be informed, as an outside agent. . ."  
  
"OUTSIDE AGENT?!" Charles raged, punching a button and sitting up as the cover slid from his niche. "Soleil Étoile has been nothing if not an extraordinary example of loyalty, and there is nothing I believe we can't trust her with! Besides, she's an Alpha-Class Psionic. She's a telepath, a telekine, a receptive/expatiated empath, AND she's an External."  
  
"That merely says that if she wanted to betray us, she could."  
  
"Why would she?" Charles inquired in a tone that would have turned the Sahara desert in dry season into Antarctica within two seconds. "Why would she?"  
  
"I don't want to argue with you, Professor. You're only exciting yourself. Besides, your check-up's done."  
  
"That's right," Lilandra reiterated, "Shall we go have dinner?"  
  
Charles compressed his lips so thinly they described a single line on his face. "Yes, come to think of it. Shi'ar cuisine will calm my spirits." He sighed, and the lower half of the bubble morphed into a hover-chair as he entered a code into its keypad. Charles took a deep breath, smiled, and held out an arm to each female. "Shall we, ladies?"  
  
XXX  
  
Rebecca Starsmore rinsed the last of the conditioner out of her hair before turning the water on full blast chill, only for a moment to tighten her skin, and stepped from the shower, shutting it off as she pushed the curtain aside. Disregarding the towel hanging on the door, she pulled on clean femboxers (her underwear of choice), a pair of cut-off dungarees and a giant wifebeater she'd stolen from her co-worker, Chris Warden, and walked barefoot into the hallway. As she rushed down the stairs, she worked her hair into a ponytail and clipped it up above her neck. As she sped into the kitchen, she hoped and prayed Ororo had made her special herbal tea blend, nearly knocking into Gambit in the process.  
  
"Mon Dieu, t'ought I was too ol' fo'e y' chère!" he ribbed, steadying her shoulders with big, callused hands.  
  
'Ey, get yer 'ands offa me sis, Cajun!  
  
"Jono?" Rebecca turned, taking in the picture of her brother sitting with Angelo and Leech, casually sipping coffee. SIPPING COFFEE?! "You're drinking!"  
  
Great, ain't it? his lazy grin twisted her heart. Can actually talk, too, but I'm afraid I might scare yer ter death. From that look ye've got on yer face, I ain't too far away from doin' just 'at, either.   
  
"I just. . .when did you get in?"  
  
Last night. Saw yer an' Sam sleepin' on th' couch, all snuggled up like two bugs inna rug. Gor me some pictures, too.  
  
"Oh." She said, very quietly. "Did you really?"  
  
Yeh. he shrugged his shoulders, which, she noted, had gotten wider since the last photograph she'd seen of him. Will yer 'ave some coffee?  
  
"I was sort of hoping Ororo had made some tea."  
  
Ah. . . no such luck, I'm afraid.  
  
"I suppose I'll have to make do with something else," she rummaged in the refrigerator and poured herself a cup of milk. "So, you've come back."  
  
So've yer, Jono replied, with a complacent shrug. Thought I'd never see yeh again, I did.  
  
"Sorry if I. . ."  
  
Oh, bugger apologies, Soleil. They're usually pretty much bloody useless.  
  
"I guess. And I go by Rebecca nowadays. Especially with family."  
  
Jono seemed to cringe, but he managed to arrange his face into something like a smile. Good on yer, luv. he nodded. So, is there anything yer want ter do. . .bondin' like, yer know . . . ter get ter know each other better or something?  
  
"I. . .ah, did you have something in mind?"  
  
Neh. Was 'opin' yer did.  
  
"Did you WANT to do something?"  
  
It'd be a good idea, don't yer think? After all, we ARE related, an' seein' as mum an' dad ain't alive no more, per'aps we should. . .yer know, get in touch with our sense o' family.  
  
"Yeah. That's a good idea." Rebecca nodded. "I guess we can have dinner or something? And then maybe a Danger Room session or two?"  
  
Oh, bloody. 'At reminds me, I've got ter meet Jubilee about a power-analysis. Damn. Orright, lissen, Sol. . .Rebecca, I'll get back t'gether with yer about noonish, say?  
  
"Fine. Where?"  
  
The Biosph. . .th' lake, how's about that?  
  
"All right. Noonish, Breakstone. I'll see you then."  
  
Orright, luv. See yer.  
  
XXX 


	13. I Was Afraid You'd Say That

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Thirteen: I Was Afraid You'd Say That  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Creed clutched Monet's hand tighter as they crossed the street. "This ain't necessary," he griped, annoyed at the noise of the city, the stench surrounding him.   
  
"Of course it is, mon coeur," she whispered. "especially after last night," her husky whisper recalled to him hours of smooth, slick skin and her body straining against his.  
  
"Beautiful. . ."  
  
"I want to do this for you, Victor," she smiled slyly. "Let me pamper you."  
  
"I ain't been pampered in years. . .hell, I ain't been pampered EVER since I've been alive."  
  
"Then all the more reason to allow me to do as I wish with you."  
  
He snorted. "So what DO women classify as relaxation? I've always wondered, 'specially when there are malls involved." She tensed at his side.  
  
"Is that what you think we're going to do? Go to some petty, crowded public recreation area where they vend so called 'fashion' at exorbitant prices to civilia?"  
  
"Is that even a word?"  
  
"Civilia?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
She thought for a moment, her lips twitching in the most adorable way. Then she laughed. "I'm not sure, really."  
  
He slid an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead as they walked. "Yer as cute as a button, Monet."  
  
"Why thank you, mon amour. I've always wanted to be compared to a piece of plastic."  
  
"All's I'm here ta do is make ya happy," Victor shrugged, then brought her to a full stop on the sidewalk, holding her shoulders in his big hands. "So what're we doin' here, darlin'? Why can't we jest go on back ta the mansion?"  
  
"Because, I'm not ready." She laughed. "It's our six-month anniversary. I should have a memento of it, don't you think?"  
  
"Ya've got ridiculously overpriced jewelry that looks stunnin' on ya. What more do ya want?"  
  
"For you to escort me around town without another peep of protest," she batted her eyelashes, shooting him a smile that still made him weak in the knees.  
  
"Yeah, all right, darlin'." He grinned. "So, lissen, who do ya think that l'Rivière fella is?"  
  
"Seriously, Victor, are you still concerned about THAT?" there was a snap of temper behind Monet's controlled scent. Victor, being who he was, ignored it.  
  
"A lil' bit. It's just that Beck. . .seemed ta know him from a while ago, an' that means he could only be a merc'r a Thief."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"She said th' Cajun introduced them."  
  
"Then he must be. . .oh, my!" Monet covered her mouth delicately with one hand. "That was Guillaume l'Rivière, one of THE most eligible bachelors in the world! His mother was some sort of royalty, and his father is rumored to have been a diplomat. His parents died when he was only an infant, and between then and his grandfather's death, when he was nineteen, he was in and out of jail several times, though none of the charges were ever proved. But when he was nineteen, he took over his grandfather's post, you see, in his company."  
  
"Sounds like a major Crime Syndicate ta me."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"I said, it sounds like he's the head of a major Crime Syndicate."  
  
"Well, if you're going to look at it THAT way. . ." Monet pouted.  
  
Victor cringed. "I could always be wrong, beautiful."  
  
"Yes, you might. And we're here," she smiled sweetly, but he could detect the tang of annoyance in her scent.  
  
He turned toward where she was looking, and let out an inward groan. Before him stood the Manhattan Sea Spa.  
  
XXX  
  
Scott, there's an incoming call from Nigeria. Nathan alerted his father with a quick postage to his psyche. It's Broker Amman.  
  
Call the X-Men and X-Cell to the War Room.  
  
He did so, and in under five minutes, all fifty plus people were all arranged around the giant video-phone in the War Room. A young man stood within. He was dark-complexioned, with chiseled, handsome features and stunning blue eyes. "Broker," Ororo murmured the moments she set eyes on her nephew. "what have you called for?"  
  
"I'm holding a Mutant Conference here. The meetings are beginning at any moment, and I was told to extend an invitation to the world-famous X-Men. They supposed I had more sway over you because of my relation to you." He grinned at Ororo, showing pearly-white teeth, pointed like those of a jackal.  
  
"We'll get back to you," Scott murmured, "stay on the line. We just need to confer," he put the vid-phone on hold, and turned to both X-Teams, his eyes finally resting on one young woman. "What do you think, Jubilee?"  
  
"I think. . .I think the X-Men should go, and X-Cell should take care of the grounds. It just makes sense. 'Sides, M's still out on her post-anniversary party with Creed." She nodded a couple of times, pursing her lips.  
  
"Think you can handle the boredom without destroying the mansion?" Scott smiled into her eyes, as though she were the only one in the room.  
  
She laughed. "I'll try, Cyke. I'll try."  
  
X-Man stood up. "If I may, Scott,"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"I'd like to join the Conference."  
  
"Would you be comfortable with that, Jubilee?"  
  
"Well. . .Jono just got back, an' it's been a while since X-Cell was complete, an'. . .I'd really appreciate it if ya hung around, Nate. But don't lemme get it your way, if ya really wanna go. We'll get on all right without ya."  
  
Nate looked to his father. "It's up to you, Nate." Scott affirmed.  
  
"Jubes?" his voice was pleading.  
  
"Hey, I said don't lemme stop ya, Nate."  
  
"I'd feel guilty knowing I'd let ya down."  
  
"Why don't we take a vote?" she suggested. When several of the senior X-Men grinned, she flashed them stern looks. "For X-Cell members ONLY." Some faces fell, namely those of Wolverine and Gambit, who did not particularly relish the idea of going to a Conference with a bunch of stuffy old politicians, much less with Cyclops' son thinking he was running the show.  
  
"All right." Nate agreed.  
  
"All in favor of Nate's leaving, raise your hands." Jubilee said. Angelo, Leech, and Jono raised their hands quickly. Jubilee shrugged. "All in favor of him staying, raise your hands." She, Paige, and Artie, raised theirs. "Well, hell. That only leaves M. Never thought she'd have the tippin' vote," she shrugged, and reached out with her telepathy. After a few moments, she was able to reach her teammate. Monet, you there?  
  
WHAT?! Oh, it is you, Jubilation. What do you want now?  
  
This is the sittyation, she began, and explained. So basically, I need ta know whether you want Nate to leave or stay.  
  
I would prefer it if he remained. X-Cell hasn't been complete for the past few weeks while Jonothon was off gallivanting in Japan.  
  
Thought ya'd say that. All right. See ya later, M.  
  
Good bye, she replied, and instantly shut down the link.  
  
Jubilee turned to X-Man. "Sorry, Nate, looks like M wants ya here as much as I do." She grinned. Angelo and Leech rolled their eyes.  
  
"That's fine with me, I guess."  
  
Scott turned the video-phone back one. "Broker? We'll be there in a few."  
  
XXX   
  
Jonothon Starsmore walked slowly down to Breakstone Lake. He'd just gotten off the phone with his manager, and the record sales were looking good. The hype from the tour had been just what was needed to boost international sales. So his professional life was looking good; a part-time gig with one of the foremost superhero groups in the world and a nice little Ace in the hole with his music, just as a back-up. He was still dragging on the coat-tails of the bed-hopping stage imposed on him by the five-month-old break-up with Jubilee, and that meant lots and lots of tail, which meant going out and painting the town almost every night by himself or with Angelo, or some other unsuspecting victim.  
  
And then there was Rebecca. How did she fit into the "new body, new life" strategy he'd been celebrating for nearly a year now? She was his sister. So what? She hadn't bothered to give him so much as a damn "hello" for sixteen years! The last time he'd seen her, he'd been what? Eighteen? And she hadn't even shown up to their parent's funeral the next year! How cold did you get? But. . .there was something about her now, something she hadn't had then, or perhaps he'd just not noticed it. . .something behind her eyes. . .where once there had been anger and a vicious tugging at the leash, there was sorrow, a resigned quality. Where once she had been an implacable teenager, she was now an angsty, resigned woman. A woman. Of course. She was all grown up now, he remembered. But how ironic that when he was a teenager, he was been the resigned one and she had been the spirited one, and now that he had new hope in his life, she was letting go of hers.  
  
It had to have something to do with Creed. He was half of a mind to ask her, but he knew that it was too soon for that. They would have to ease into each other's lives, to take stock and assess what they were getting into. It wouldn't do to demand her confidence immediately and decide later that she wasn't the sister he wanted. He couldn't do that to her. It wasn't likely that he'd decide that he didn't want her, though. He needed someone concrete to hold on to, and even though their relationship scarcely extended past a shared name, there was something to be said for having the same genetic material in you.  
  
He was in sight of Breakstone now. She was sitting on the little pier, dipping her toes into the water, her hair billowing around her in the wind, a plaid shirt clutched tightly around her slim, muscular shoulders. She looked like a forsaken lover waiting indefatigably for the return of her lost husband. There was a wistfulness in her pose. . .  
  
Jonothon shook himself, and quickly closed the distance between them with long, rapid strides. Hey, there, Rebecca.  
  
"Hello, Jonothon."  
  
Call me Jono. When yer say me whole name, I ferget who yer talkin' to. he sent a little psionic chuckle.  
  
"All right then. And call me Beck. Only. . .certain people use Rebecca anymore. Everyone calls me Beck."  
  
So I remember.  
  
"So you said that you can talk, then?"  
  
Jono cleared his throat and stammered, "Y. . .yeah, I can. Still a bit difficult, b. . .but I manage."  
  
"How much do you usually. . ."  
  
"I've b. . .been talkin' a lot since I've been on tour. Can't shout psionically ter all th' fans. Might c. . .cause an FoH rally, Japan-style."  
  
"And they do things on such a big scale. . ." Rebecca sighed. "Couldn't have that, I suppose?"  
  
"N. . .no. Listen, B. . .Beck, d'yer wanna go down ter Harry's an' get somethin' ter eat? It's lunchtime, an' I'll take any excuse ter put somethin' in me mouth."  
  
"Sure, I'd love that." She gave him a hesitant smile.   
  
"Brilliant," he offered her his hand, and she slipped hers into it easily. As they walked down toward the garage, he murmured, "Yer know, I m. . .meant wot I said that n. . .night we talked on th' phone."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Th. . .that I love yer."  
  
"Oh." Her smile grew wider, more genuine, and softened her ice-chip blue eyes marvelously. "I meant it, too, Jono."  
  
"Good. M. . .mebbe we can rescue our 'orrid sibling relationship t. . .track record so far."  
  
"Maybe." She sighed a little, and tightened her fingers around his. "So, my car or yours?"  
  
XXX  
  
They lay side by side in the grass, occasionally managing a few shreds of conversation, but mostly just reveling in one another's company. All the small talk and food that had filled the past three hours had helped them getting to know each other again. For example, she had noticed that he couldn't eat fast enough, shoveling his food down in big mouthfuls and downing them with pulls of beer that would have made even Wolverine's eyes widen. And he noted that she didn't do more than pick at her food, slicing her steak so thin that you could see the light shining through the strips of almost-raw meat, and in the time he'd taken to eat six burgers, she'd scarcely eaten half her order.  
  
And then there were the little facial expressions that helped so much to humanize them to each other. The way she wrinkled her nose as she laughed, the way he scarcely formed his lips into a smile, but often crinkled up his eyes at the corners, the way he had for the seventeen years in between not having anything but psionic fire between his nose and abdomen.  
  
It seemed as though all the years in between they had been readying themselves for one another, preparing to have a family again. They were both astonished at how well they. . .fit. They both enjoyed much the same things, though the adrenaline rushes Jono indulged in on stage, Rebecca fulfilled in being a mercenary.  
  
They hadn't only small-talked. There were also intense discussions on life, philosophy, significant experiences they had both gone through, and the things that had formed their character. To summarize, they had delved into one another's souls and come out with shards of diamond within five hours.  
  
Now, in the comfortable silence ensuing, like the eye of the storm, they basked in the sun and one another's presence. And then a shadow fell over them.   
  
"Chamber, Jubilee is requesting X-Cell to assemble in the Rec-Room. She seems to have something of importance to relate to us."  
  
Be right there, M. he crinkled his eyes, and rolled over on his elbows, brown eyes searching his sister's. Guess I'll be goin', then, Beck.  
  
"Yeah. Guess I'll see you."  
  
"Y. . .yeh." he got to his knees, then pushed himself to his feet slowly, with the reluctance of an eight-year-old boy to go to school. He turned toward Monet, noted her rigid silence and the way her features were strained as though she had just eaten something distasteful. She walked away without once looking at Rebecca, and Jono followed with several glances over his shoulder at his sister, who seemed perfectly content to remain where she was, stretched out spread-eagle on the grass, effectively staining her khaki shorts.  
  
Monet, he touched his teammate and friend on the shoulder before they entered the Mansion.  
  
"What is it, Jonothon?"  
  
Wot d'yer think Jubilee wants with us?  
  
"It may have something to do with the fact that Sinister just dropped in."  
  
Wot?!  
  
"Sinister. He hasn't yet posed any sort of threat, but as the X-Men just jetted off to Nigeria to that Mutant Summit headed by Broker Amman, I believe we should exercise some caution."  
  
Oh. An' why 'aven't yer called me sister?  
  
Monet sneered as he brought up THAT subject, and referred to Rebecca as being related to him. "Because, he wasn't asking for her, he was asking for X-Cell, namely you. Besides, you're one of the only ones who can take him and you have to admit, for someone who was one of his labrats, Soleil Étoile is rather well-dispositioned toward our enemy, don't you think?"  
  
Woteva, he replied, casting another look over his shoulder, but Rebecca had disappeared.  
  
As they entered the Rec-Room, the first thing Jonothon saw was Sinister, dressed, no longer in his imposing regalia of body-armor and that high-collared cape, but a stylish, Italian-made suit of black silk. His shirt was white, and his tie was blood-red, describing a perfect line down the center of his broad chest. He was sitting in an armchair, sipping tea, with a small buttered scone in his hand. Jubilee was sitting across from him, her ankles crossed, one hand in Leech's, who appeared visibly shaken at the appearance of the Morlock's murderer. Artie was also comforting his friend, and Nate Grey sat beside Paige and Angelo, his steely blue eyes fixed grimly on Sinister.   
  
Jonothon took the liberty of lowering himself into a loveseat beside Monet, his eyes narrowing as he felt her psionic signature tense up at the sight of Sinister. He took her hand reassuringly, and when her eyes turned to him, they did not hold the usual annoyance they would have at such a gesture from him.   
  
"Good afternoon, X-Cell." Sinister began, setting down his tea and scone, "You must be wondering why I'm here?"  
  
"I figure you're here to see Soleil," Jubilee said, taking control of the situation before Nate could deliver some sarcastic rejoinder.  
  
"The thought most certainly crossed my mind, but why should I commit literal suicide when I could so easily arrange an interview outside of this. . .death-house."  
  
"Is that what you think this is?" demanded Nate, sitting straighter in his seat.  
  
"Why no, my dear boy," Sinister smiled condescendingly. "Not for you, anyhow. But, as you know, I'm not the most popular of tea-guests, and I don't blame you for assuming the worst when I dropped in. However, my intentions today are entirely benign. I just wanted to drop off some information and bid you all a very fond good day."  
  
"What're ya askin' in return for this information, Sinny?" Jubilee stood up, hands planted on her hips.   
  
"However do you mean?"  
  
"I mean that we're not quite as stupid as you think. We have brains, and we've tangled with you before. You're not one to give something without extracting a hefty price in return." She replied, her crystal blue eyes signaling everyone else to remain silent.  
  
"I only wish that you will not regard me with such suspicion as I have hitherto been tendered. I have finally abandoned my obsessive geneticism, and am looking into retirement."  
  
"P. . .pardon?" Jonothon let out a chuckle, his eyes crinkling. "You, M. . . Mr. Sinister, tormentor o' th' Summ. . . m. . .mers family. . .retirin'?"  
  
"Yes, indeed, my dear boy. And you owe this considerable transformation in no small part to your sister."  
  
"Soleil?" Monet's interest was finally piqued. "How so?"  
  
"Well, she has advised me time and again over the years to abandon my plotting, and I have finally done the intelligent thing and followed her advice."  
  
Jubilee's foot tapped a rapid beat on the floor. "Explain," she said, sitting back down and crossing her arms in front of her. Artie frowned and pulled Leech closer into a hug.  
  
"In layman's terms, I got bored," he sighed, huge shoulders lifting and falling with the slight breath. "Besides, my Marauders got out of hand. They committed mutiny and I fear for my research."  
  
"Lies the wind in that corner?" muttered Nate, under his breath, quoting a line from some literary piece or other.  
  
"Indeed it does. You know I've been looking for a cure for the Legacy ever since YOUR brother was asinine enough to corrupt our deal and release the Virus into the world?"  
  
Nate glared harder. Jubilee rolled her eyes at him. "Why'd yer Marauders turn on ya? Low wages?"  
  
"To the contrary. I threatened to release my experiments into the world, and they protested, saying I should release them, as well. I said I would consider it, and they decided I had gone soft, but instead of merely attempting to escape, they attempted to murder me, that they should no longer be beneath my shadow."  
  
"So you got what's been comin' to ya fer years now, huh?"  
  
"I suppose you could say that," the mad scientist nodded. "However, I believe that you, in return for my inactivity in such matters as we used to have such delightful little tiffs about, would be interested in my research material. I have, as you know, reams of it."  
  
"We'll have to wait for an okay from the big boys, but for now, you're welcome here so long as you inform us that you'll be coming. Any instance in which you do not, we will do our utmost to kill you, no matter what you may say in defense."  
  
"I understand." He smiled quietly, and opened a tesseract, turning back and nodding solemnly to the members of X-Cell. "I certainly hope I didn't unduly frighten any of you, barging in like that. It WAS terribly rude of me, and I apologize." With those words, he was gone.  
  
XXX  
  
Victor Creed watched Rebecca from downwind, and just out of range of the spatial telepathy barrier she liked to keep up around herself, so she knew what was going on around her. She was sprawled out on the grass, gazing vacantly up into the sky, and he wondered what she could be thinking of. He didn't particularly want to confront her, but then, he'd always prided himself in cutting to the chase. He ambled toward her, making certain his shields were tight up, and that his only surface thoughts were entirely benign. As he approached, he expected her to turn her head toward him, but she ignored him, keeping her eyes trained on the cottony stratus clouds above her.  
  
"Becca," he murmured her name, and she closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, not so much blinking as acknowledging his presence. He nearly growled, knowing that she was deliberately baiting him. She knew he hated being disregarded. 'We need ta talk."  
  
"What about?" she murmured, her smooth, low voice dipping and gliding over the words.  
  
"Last night."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"Ya said ya loved me. On my anniversary with another woman, no less. Don't ya think that merits something?"  
  
She sighed, a peaceful smiling coming to her lips. "You must have misunderstood me. What I meant was that regardless of your romantic affiliation with Monet, I still care about you, and that this trip was not only made for Jonothon."  
  
He said, "Is that really all, Beck?" His voice was a shade more demanding than it had hitherto been, raised only a fraction above a whisper.  
  
"Yes, that's all, I may have been slightly unreasonable last night; I'd been drinking, and it had been a bit of a shock to see Guillaume that morning. I was stressed from running about all day, trying to get ready."  
  
"Ya still gonna see him?"  
  
"Yes, he's invited me to a housewarming party."  
  
"So the Cajun introduced ya?" he eased himself onto the ground beside her, in a half-reclining position.  
  
"I don't see how this is relevant to you," she replied, but because she was comfortable with his edging away from their heated discussion of the previous night, she continued. "Yes, Gambit introduced us."  
  
"How long ago?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I wanna know."  
  
She sighed, and closed her eyes, computing numbers in her head. "Thirteen years ago."  
  
"Did ya date?"  
  
"He was with Rachel Summers at that time," she shrugged. "but then she got sucked into the time-stream and we just happened."  
  
"Under my nose, then, eh?" he grinned ferally. "I should pull his intestines out through his throat."   
  
Rebecca sighed. "I love that trick."  
  
"Damned if I ain't taught ya more'n ya should know, darlin'." He pursed his lips a little.  
  
"Damned if I haven't hurt you more than I should have, Vic." She replied quickly. He sat up a little straighter. "I mean. . .I shouldn't have busted your arse as much as I did. . .running away so much while you were only trying to protect me. I'm glad you're with someone who can appreciate you now."  
  
"What're ya sayin', Beck?"  
  
"Can I be completely honest with you?"  
  
"I wish ya would be. When ya talk in circles, ya take my head with ya."  
  
"Well, when you asked me to sign the divorce papers, it was as though someone had yanked a carpet out from beneath me. I know, I had just left you (yet again) not a year before, but I was contemplating going back to you, as I always do. And then you showed up and asked me to end it forever." She laughed a little, in a quiet, mildly disturbing way she'd had about her ever since she was just a child. "To tell you the truth, I'd always envisioned doing the same to you, tossing them into your face with a little flourish, watching your jaw drop open and your eyes widen. . .I wanted to get back at you for all those years you kept me under your thumb. I've always been mesmerized by you, and I wanted to let you know that I was my own woman, finally. So when YOU showed up wanting to be rid of me, it made me think. It frightened me that you didn't need me as much as I knew I needed you."  
  
Victor grunted. "Coulda fooled me. Hell, ya gave me every reason ta believe I was an unwanted complication in yer life."  
  
"But I felt as though I undid every angry word I said to you when we made love," her tone was casual, even vacant, but there was a telltale hitch in her voice that alerted Victor to her inner conflict.  
  
"Listen, Becca. . . "  
  
"I didn't come here to win you back, Vic." She rolled her eyes. "I just wanted you to know that I was lying when I said that you weren't the love of my life." Her lashes lifted, and her blue, blue eyes stabbed into his. He quickly turned his head away.  
  
"I think you should leave, Beck." He said, very quietly, his voice still a whispery vestige of what it usually was. He was a soft-spoken man, in the moments when his rage was just running weakly to his brain like a gentle stream. Now, he could scarcely feel the anger; his inner beast was no longer worrying at the chain he had only just learnt to tug around its neck.  
  
She nodded, tried to catch his eyes again, but he refused to meet her gaze. Finally, she shrugged. "I was afraid you'd say that." She rose silently. "I'm going to leave an address and a phone number with Jonothon, if you don't mind."  
  
"Got nothin' against that," he murmured. "What is it?"  
  
"I'd rather not leave it with you."  
  
"Why's that? Don't ya trust me?" he avoided using her name.  
  
"No. I just don't want you to think that half of the reason I'm leaving it is for you." She got up, and headed for the mansion.  
  
XXX  
  
By the time Jonothon Starsmore found the letter in his room, his sister was gone. There were raised bumps on the surface of the page, denoting drops of water had spilled on it and dried, but some of the words were blurred and unreadable. The note read:  
  
"Dear Jono,  
  
"I'm sorry I had to leave on such short notice, but my partner called me. He found us the op of a lifetime; it pays (unintelligible word) better than I can afford to pass up. It was beyond wonderful seeing you again, and I hope you can find time out of your schedule to call or visit me.   
  
"I feel like a complete wanker leaving like this, but there's nothing to be done about it (unintelligible phrase). The mercenary world must run on wheels and I'm an integral cog, so to speak. Please contact me at the following address and/or phone number, and inform the X-Men that I am open to any communication they wish to have.  
  
"Once again, I apologize. I'll miss you very much, and I hope you don't wait sixteen years to ring me.  
  
"All my love, Your Sister,  
  
"Rebecca Starsmore  
  
"E-Mail: yorkster_blind@aol.com  
  
"Phone Number: (212) 809-9247"  
  
XXX 


	14. Easy Come, Easy Go

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Fourteen: Easy Come, Easy Go  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Guillaume l'Rivière sat up. Yes, that WAS someone knocking on his door. He rolled off his couch, and ambled toward the door. He'd only given his address out to three people, and one of them was on an op in Eastern Europe at the moment. Considering his luck, however, he had a good idea of who it was. "Rebecca, is dat you?" he murmured to the wooden panels separating him from the hall.  
  
"It's me." She replied. "Let me in, will you?"  
  
He unlocked and opened the door. "Bon soir, chère, t' what do I owe dis honor?"  
  
"I left the Mansion."  
  
"Oh? Porquoi?"  
  
"Because Vic didn't want me there. I didn't fit in with his life, and to be perfectly honest, I felt. . .caged there."  
  
"You an' me bot', pétite," he shrugged.   
  
"So, Guillaume, can I crash here?"  
  
"Why don' y' go back t' Warden's safe'ouse?" he led her back toward the sofa, sat down beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders comfortingly.  
  
"I don't feel like confronting his flourishing love-life."  
  
"Dieu, chère, it's on'y flourishing b'cause de homme is un slut!"  
  
"And I'm not?" she grinned wryly.  
  
"Oui, you ain'. B'sides, it's easier t' pick up men when you're gay."  
  
"Why would you say that?"  
  
"B'cause de major populace o' good-lookin' hommes dese days be gay."  
  
"True story."  
  
"An' all de good ones be taken, non?"  
  
"Also true."  
  
"So, y' come 'ere fo'e some casual sex?"  
  
"Maybe. I'm not really in the mood right now."  
  
"I'll bet anyt'in' dat I can MAKE y' get in de mood."  
  
"You would be so lucky," she laughed.  
  
"If I 'ear anoder luck joke, I'm gonna t'row a hissy fit." He pouted. She smiled.  
  
"You have such pretty lips, Guillaume," she murmured, her voice whimsical. Then she turned away and buried her face in her hands. "You know, wherever Vic's concerned, I feel like an adolescent pining over her hopeless crush."  
  
"On'y y've never 'ad a crush y' couldn' 'ave. Y' were always ballsy enough t' approach dem, or t' make dem back off if y' wanted." He sighed. "Why couldn' y' fall in love wit' un homme like moi instead of a scumbag like Creed?"  
  
"Bad luck." She grinned wryly, winking at him.  
  
"Jus' fo'e dat. . ." a twinkle came to his forest-green eyes, and he lunged for her, tumbling them both onto the floor, but, as luck would have it, he landed on top, imprisoning her between the carpet and his body. A faraway look came to her eyes, halting the tickling spree he was about to embark on.  
  
"Would you do me a favor, darling?" she murmured.  
  
"Any't'in', chère," his voice was low and husky, his body responding to her nearness and warmth, and the feelings he'd always had for her.  
  
"Will you be Victor for me tonight?"  
  
"O'course, chère," he smiled quietly, and within seconds, he had morphed into the muscular feral. "So, darlin', what did ya have in mind?" he growled in her ex-husband's voice, with her ex-husband's mouth.  
  
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled his lips down onto hers, shoving her tongue violently into his mouth, cutting it on his fangs, overwhelming him with her taste, her passion. She drew herself up, and flipped him over in one smooth, expert movement. When finally she lifted her mouth from his, neither was breathing properly. "Thank you, Guillaume, thank you so goddamn much," she murmured into his chest, her fingers busily unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt and tugging down the zippers on his jeans.   
  
"Where's this goin'?" he grabbed her hands in his. "I wanna be here for ya, but I don't know if I can deal with this right now."  
  
"In YOUR voice, Guillaume, not his," she whispered, her hands seeking his, fingers brushing against his palms.  
  
"I want y', Rebecca, always have, always will, but if y' wan' me t' be Creed, den I dunno if I can play 'im fo'e ya. It'll only hurt mo'e."  
  
"That's where you're wrong," she cupped his face, nipped at his lower lip, flicked her tongue over his chin. "It'll make the hurt longer in coming. Please. Just tonight. For me."  
  
"All right, p'tite, all right. Fo'e tonight. Fo'e you, ma Soleil." He popped his claws out, raking them down her back, tearing her expensive designer blouse to shreds, reveling in her low growl of pleasure before stifling it with his lips. "Je t'aime."  
  
"Always have, always will." She whispered, and his heart rammed hard against her chest, and she reached her arms up around his neck, nestling her face in his shoulder. She smiled, pulled back, and slid the mutilated blouse from her shoulders.   
  
"Damn, woman, what're ya wearin'?" he demanded, amber eyes widening at the lacy teddy she had on beneath. She laughed in her throat, the sound sultry, but frightening in its own peculiar way. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  
  
"As though you've never seen me in something like this before."  
  
He blinked. "I'm pretty sure I'd have remembered somethin' like that. . ." he muttered.  
  
"Yeah. You would have." She stopped long enough to slide out of her low-sitting chinos, flipping her heels off and lowering herself onto him. They made love passionately, and with a frantic edge that was less demand than it was impatient. Neither wanted the moment to end, but neither wanted to draw it out, both knowing that everything between them was a complex charade but taking comfort in the familiarity of one another's bodies. When finally, they both lay sated on the floor, Rebecca pulled out her cell-phone and called Warden.  
  
"Chris? Yeah, I'm sorry, did I disturb you? Is Richard there? Oh, say hello for me. No, I haven't just gotten laid. How would you know, all the men you've dated in the past five years haven't slept with a woman since they were in high-school! Oh, you think you know me, then? Bullshit. Listen, I'm going to be a little longer in coming back to the Safe house than I thought I'd be. Yeah. I miss you, too. And yes, I saw Jean-Paul Beaubier. I'm not sure, he's dating someone at the moment, but I'll be sure to tell him that you sent your regards to his arse. All right. No, I'm not with Victor right now. No, you haven't met him. If you're doing that ridiculous victory-dance right now. . .whatever. All right, Chris. Listen, I'll see you in a few days. Yes, give my regards to your lovely boyfriend. Love you, too. Bye."  
  
As she hung up, Guillaume turned, propped himself up on an elbow. "Ya know, this healing factor comes in real handy. Never thought ta use it before. . ."  
  
"Ha bloody ha, l'Rivière."   
  
"So, are ya gonna apologize ta me fer walkin' out on our date last night?"  
  
"I would, but that would be so trite."  
  
"And if there's anything you're not, it's predictable."  
  
"That's right. It's also why I'm going to say I'm sorry for walking out on you. Are we still on for that housewarming party?"  
  
Guillaume's eyes widened. "Pardon?" he growled.  
  
"Shift into yourself, darling, it's been two years since I've seen you naked." He obeyed, but sluggishly, as their minutes-old exercise had worn him out far more than even staging a museum heist would have. "You haven't changed. Your abdomen's still as lovely as when you were twenty-three."  
  
"Merci," he grinned. "I wish. . ."  
  
"Rachel were around to say that instead of some aging merc who's in love with her ex-husband?"  
  
"I didn' say dat, compris?"  
  
"I know. I know. But I know you meant that. But I'm grateful in my own way that she's not. Otherwise I'd be lying on a rug just now with Mystique, a woman who bore Victor's child. How kinky would THAT be?"  
  
Guillaume smiled like only a protégé of Remy LeBeau's could. "I t'ink somet'in' like dat woul' be right up your alley."  
  
"Oh, you sexy bastard!" she cuffed him on the shoulder. "I do love you."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah, in my own messed-up way. You're the only one I can do this with, who understands that it's not so much about comfort as it is about just plain old-fashioned hormones"  
  
"Oui, I s'pose." He shrugged. "So, y' be stayin' wit' me fo'e de weekend, at least?"  
  
"Looks like it."  
  
"Dat means de firs' t'ing we need t' do is go shoppin' fo'e a new blouse," he held up the tattered ruins of the one she had been wearing when she had knocked on the door.  
  
"Sounds good to me," she whispered, her eyes drifting closed as she curled up into his chest. "Would you do me another favor, darling?"  
  
"Anyt'in'."  
  
"Carry me into the bedroom and don't wake me until sinfully late tomorrow?"  
  
"Yo' wish be my command," he whispered, dropping a final kiss onto her forehead before she drifted out of consciousness.  
  
XXX  
  
Two Months Later. . .  
  
Chris Warden slammed the bathroom door open. Rebecca's head whipped up, the shaving razor in her hand poised to be thrown at a dangerous, precise angle, just acute enough to rip his throat open. When she realized it was her partner, she hissed. "You just nearly got yourself killed you little shite," she muttered.  
  
"You'll never believe who just called!"  
  
"From the looks of it, Jean-Paul. Why else would a gay man be so dotty?" she retorted.  
  
"Oh, come on, be nice for once, Becky!" he pouted and batted his big blue eyes.  
  
"Works on your boyfriend, Chris, doesn't work on me. And if you call me Becky one more time, I'm going to telekinetically lobotomize you."  
  
"All right, fine." Chris rolled his eyes. "Guillaume l'Rivière."  
  
"He called?"  
  
"Yes! He has an op for us! Aren't you excited? He says he'll only discuss price with you, and I think he was serious, because he left his PERSONAL phone number. Do you think he's gay?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because Guillaume's one of the most heterosexual men I've slept with."  
  
"Oh, I see." Chris exclaimed archly. "He's an old boyfriend."  
  
"Hardly. If he were an old boyfriend, I wouldn't even CONSIDER an op commissioned by him seriously because I'd think it was pity-dust."  
  
"Pity-dust, the nemesis of the pixie kind," Warden sighed. Rebecca shook her head. It was only in moments like these when he let out his effeminate side. Otherwise he was a stone-cold, ultimately macho merc. The sort she'd always dreamed of working with. Sure, the man was beautiful eye-candy, but that was just an added benefit. She shrugged. "So, are you gonna call him?"  
  
"Will," she rinsed her razor off, then towel-dried her legs. "Soon as I kick your ass for busting in on me in the shower."  
  
"Oh grow up! It's not like I like what I see."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Okay, okay. If I were straight, I'd have a hard-on. What about it?"  
  
She shot him a sly grin that would have been wasted on any other gay man but Chris Warden. He returned it with one of his own, leant down, and kissed her forehead. "You're so sexy, Rebecca. Sometimes I think I should be bisexual, just so I could screw you."  
  
"Tug your head out of my arse, Warden. It's business time." She put her hand over his face and shoved him away, jogging nude to the telephone and picking it up, dialing a number from memory.   
  
"L'Rivière speaking." Guillaume's voice came over the receiver, loud and clear.  
  
"This is Rebecca Starsmore calling. You spoke with Chris Warden, my partner, about some business transaction you need our advice on?"  
  
"Mon Dieu! Who y' tryin' t' impress, pétite?" Guillaume, or Checkmate, as he was called to the underlings of his Crime Syndicate, grinned into the phone.   
  
"No one. Chris, quit skulking in the doorway. And wipe that grin off your face."  
  
"Hey, I gotta question," Checkmate muttered.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"Was Warden hittin' on meh las' time I called?"  
  
"It's highly likely. So what's the deal?"  
  
"Can I come over, say in a coupl'a hours?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll order some food. What do ya want, Thai or Italian?"  
  
"Chinese. I'll be right dere."  
  
"See ya," she hung up the phone, and turned toward Chris. "Order me some takeout from the Schezuan Temple, will you, darling?" she said as she stalked into her room to dry off and get dressed. "He'll be here shortly."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Our latest employer, Warden, who else. Oh, and don't drool all over his shoes when he gets here, all right?"  
  
XXX  
  
Chris Warden thought he'd died and gone to heaven. In front of him in full, five foot eleven live color was Guillaume Raoul l'Rivière, wearing stone-washed jeans that clung to the curves of his legs and arse, a black ribbed sweater, and an Armani leather trench coat. "Bonjour, M'sieu' Warden. Y' partner aroun'?" green eyes scanned the apartment behind the blond mercenary.  
  
"Ah, no, not really. But please, come in, make yourself completely at home." Chris moved backward, but not far enough that Guillaume could make it through the door without brushing his shoulder against the other man's chest. As the Crimelord scanned the living-room, his lips twisted into a wry grin.   
  
"Rebecca ain' 'ere?"  
  
"No, she's not really. The take-out place was only take-out, no delivery. She should be back at any second. Meanwhile, why don't you brief me in on the basics of the op?"  
  
"An' y' be sure she won' min'?"   
  
"We're partners, Mr. l'Rivière. We don't keep secrets from each other. What she knows, I know."  
  
"No offense, M'sieu' Warden, but I'm gonna havet' ask y' t' back up dat statement."  
  
"Well, for one I know she's still in love with Creed, who is a low-down, dirty bastard who plays for keeps."  
  
"Dat on'y says y' read de gossip columns o' de Merc's Quarterly," Guillaume's smile was spectral. "Why don' we wait f'r Rebecca?"  
  
"Whatever you say. Would you like a drink in the meanwhile?"  
  
"Sure. I'll 'ave a vodka martini, shaken, no' stirred."  
  
Warden nearly choked. "Are you for real?"  
  
"Non, I'm a figment o' y'r imagination." Guillaume said, standing up and sucker-punching the daylights out of the mercenary. "De t'ing I hate about y' pretty boys comin' up in de merc worl' t'day is dat y'r so fuckin' easy t' con." Tugging a syringe out of his trench coat pocket, he inserted the needle into Warden's arm and pumped a lovely amount of drugs into his bloodstream.  
  
XXX 


	15. Trust Beyond Circumstances

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Fifteen: Trust Beyond Circumstances  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Rebecca unlocked her apartment door, balancing the heavy bag of take-out in one hand and her backpack in the other. As she swung the door open, she telepathically scanned the area, as she had been doing ever since she'd gotten back from the Institute. Instantly realizing neither Guillaume nor Warden were within, she dropped the food and backpack and headed silently toward her bedroom, where she opened a drawer and tugged out a belt with several firearms attached, some of which bore the legend "The Maker," which she had bought from Forge several years ago and which were still some of the most powerful pieces in their class. Stripping calmly down into her underwear, she opened her armoire and brought out a suit of full body-armor, a black expanse of reinforced unstable molecules and Kevlar, with an emerald-green utility belt and violet trimmings. It was styled rather similarly to the late Psylocke's second uniform, with a cape and hood, but with soft-soled cat-boots, as opposed to the heels she usually favored.  
  
Arming herself and checking her utility belt to be assured that she was well-equipped, she tugged on her gloves, marched into the kitchen, ripped off a paper towel, and methodically wiped every surface in the apartment that could have been touched. When she had finished, she searched for any clue as to where Warden could have gone. When she found nothing, she grabbed her cell-phone and an always-packed overnight bag, and, after locking the apartment securely, clambered out her window and lifted herself into the air, dialing a number on her cell phone as she did so.  
  
XXX  
  
"Hello, this is Xavier's. . ."  
  
"Yeh, yeh. Hello, this is Soleil Étoile, and I'm calling for Jubilation Lee."  
  
After a few moments, the line clicked off and another opened. "Lee. Talk fast, Starsmore."  
  
"My partner's been kidnapped. I need to use Cerebro."  
  
"Fair enough. When're ya gonna be here?"  
  
"Few hours."  
  
"Need a lift?"  
  
"I can get there faster with my T.K."  
  
"All right. See ya in a few. Forget the doorbell, land on the roof."  
  
"Will do." Soleil hung up, and, streamlining her body, tightened her cloak around herself and sped off into the night.  
  
XXX  
  
Chris Warden woke up in an institution-like room, with blank walls and tiled floors. He was in a narrow twin bed with hideous sheets and no blanket, and the pillow was stuffed with a mixture of polyester and something he was allergic to. The air around him smelt like urine, rotting flesh, and sanitizer. There was an intravenous feed in his hand, and he ripped it off, dubious as to what the liquid might contain. Standing up, he inspected his clothes. They had been replaced by a starched hospital robe and a pair of flimsy blue-cloth pants. He cursed internally, as if he had only retained his clothing, he might have had a chance to escape from wherever the hell this was, as he always stitched "a little something" into the linings of whatever he wore.  
  
However, as it was, he had nothing, and began examining his surroundings more thoroughly, scanning for anything, a vent, a window, or even a drain-hole. There was no bathroom, only two buckets in the corner, one empty and one filled with water. Scratching his chest, Chris sat back down on the bed heavily. There were no outlets from the room except for the door, which he was hesitant to touch lest it have some sort of electric force-field surrounding it. *Well, this is what I get for lusting after someone that hot,* he reflected, a smile spreading over his face as a picture of l'Rivière popped up into his mind. "Spicy," he murmured aloud, against his own volition.  
  
I'm so flattered dat y' t'ink I be so desirable, mon ami, echoed a voice in his mind.  
  
I didn't know you were a psi.  
  
Expatiated shape-shifter. I be anyt'in'. I wan', mon ami.  
  
So what's your business kidnapping me like this?  
  
It's de op.  
  
Pardon?  
  
I need a legit hostage fo'e somet'in'. Y' be a U.S. citizen, non?"  
  
Yeah, I am.  
  
Magnifique, den y'll be quite perfect fo'e dis lil' con. Oui, certainment.  
  
If this is an op, will you please tell me what's going on?  
  
De job is, y' stay 'ere fo'e a coupl'a days, I get de mark y' help me get wit' yo' imprisonment, I let y' go, den y' 'ead out, guns blazin', an' take de homme out.  
  
I don't do assassinations. Soleil does.  
  
She's gotta a long way t' go, mon ami. She ain' gonna fin' me.  
  
Am I getting paid for this?  
  
Mais, oui.  
  
You should have left a note for her.  
  
Woulda looked too chummy. I need t' fool ev'yone, includin' y'.  
  
So who's the mark?  
  
Y' don' need t' know.  
  
I'm going to be murdering him. I DO need to know. Otherwise I won't go with the op.  
  
Y' don' really 'ave a choice, mon ami.  
  
Soleil's going to find me, you asshole. And when she does, she's gonna tear your balls off, flash-fry 'em, and feed 'em to ya!  
  
Y' 'ave a really imaginative mind on y', mon ami, Guillaume replied, a note of frustration coloring his even tone. Doe I t'ink y' shoul' be mo'e docile den dis wit' one o' de mos' powerful Lords dis side o' de Assassin border.  
  
Are you referring to the Guilds?  
  
What do y' t'ink?  
  
I thought they've had relative peace since LeBeau was run off their turf for killing Boudreaux.  
  
I see y' know y'r histoire, M'sieu' Warden, but I'll 'ave y' know dat "relative" means jes' dat. It ain' absolute. But I didn' bring y' 'ere t' discuss politics. I've already credited yo' account in Zurich wit' four million dollars fo'e dis kidnappin'. I'm willin' t' add ten times dat amount if y' be willin' t' hit dis mark fo'e me.  
  
I'll have to counsel with Soleil on that.  
  
Dere's no time fo'e dat. I be closin' dis deal t'morrow afternoon. Make a choice, mon ami.  
  
And if I refuse to make the hit?  
  
I've pumped enough nitro int' yo' blood t' blow y' up on command.  
  
Nitro?! Warden's eyes zoomed in on the IV stand.   
  
Non, Warden, not in dere. Did y' t'ink I was dumb enough t' put explosives in de cell wit' y'?  
  
B. . .but won't it kill me even if you don't blow it up? The stuff IS poisonous!  
  
When y' pretty-boy mercs gonna wake up an' do yo' research? It's 2025, mon ami! An' money buys a lot o' interestin' t'ings.   
  
Fine. I'll think about it. If Soleil manages to initiate contact before the op goes down, will you let me negotiate?  
  
Sure. But dat won' help de fact dat dis mark's gonna be dead wit'in forty-four hours.  
  
That's all I'm asking for.  
  
D'Accord, den. I'll send some'un in later on t' brief y'.  
  
XXX  
  
Soleil Étoile fitted the helmet of Cerebro securely over her cranium, reveling in the initial buzz the machine generated. Jubilee's lips twisted into a wry smile at the other woman's purr of pleasure as her already prodigious powers were amplified and altered according to the pattern programmed into Cerebro. "Would you like me to leave?" she inquired silently.   
  
"No, your presence is. . .bracing." the last word was uttered with an odd inflection, almost as though Soleil were asking a question. Jubilee nodded, centering herself for the surge of psionic power that shafted through her, despite the fact that she was not wearing Cerebro.  
  
Soleil's mind reached out, searching for Chris', that familiar Prussian blue and violet psionic signature, with smatterings of hot pink. . .an undoubtedly male signature, aggressive and banal, with no excuses for who he was. Her partner, her almost-friend. She envisioned the world, wrapped her telepathy around it like a blanket, made sure not to probe too hard, frowned when she sensed enemies and relaxed when she felt friends. She scanned signatures and surface thoughts, until she'd narrowed her search down to two or three, but after a more thorough probe, she realized that wherever Warden had gone, he had some reason for shielding himself from her. She sighed, and set to looking for Guillaume. She found him soon enough, lounging in his office, taking a moment away from his obscenely busy schedule to have a cigarette and a bit of scotch.   
  
She touched his mind softly, so he'd know it was her, and that she was scanning for him. Within moments, he had morphed into some random telepath and sent, Bonjour, chère. What a lovely surprise. Great of y' t' drop in.  
  
What's going on, Checkmate?  
  
Scuse me, chère?  
  
My partner's missing.  
  
Y'. . .y' mean Chris Warden?  
  
Yeah.  
  
De homme dat was hittin' on me on de phone?  
  
The very same.  
  
Well. . .I DID t'ink it was odd dat no one was home at de address y' lef' me, but I figured mebbe y'd had a better offer someplace else.  
  
How do you mean?  
  
I mean dat no one was home when I arrived at yo' apartment.  
  
I left Warden there, Guillaume.  
  
Lissen, y' soun' upset. Mebbe I shoul' have some o' my people look fo'e him.  
  
No, that's not necessary. I'll be fine on my own.  
  
But chère. . .  
  
I'm still known as Rebecca Creed to most mercs. They'll back me up. I have contacts, too, Guillaume.  
  
Well, if dat's what y' wan', chère, I can' stop y', but I don' t'ink dat you'll fin' yo' partner wit'out m' help. she caught the subtle nuance in his tone and her eyes sharpened.  
  
What have you heard, Guillaume?  
  
Pardon?  
  
Don't insult me, I know you better than that, Checkmate, she hissed, her psionic voice suddenly accompanied by a sharp prod.  
  
Mon Dieu! Didn' know y'd stoop t' stickerin' an ol' friend jus' t' get yo' partner back. Y' ain' even sleepin' wit' him, chère.  
  
Damn it, Guillaume, don't dance around with me. I'm getting really pissed off right now, so just give it to me straight up.  
  
I know y' ain' really mad at me, y' jus' be angry wit' de circumstances, so I'll be soft wit' y', Soleil. I know where Warden is, he's in my employ, on a commissioned op, E's bein' paid fo'e it, and y'll split de profits if dat's how he wants it. However, if y' attempt t' recover him, he'll be executed.  
  
Soleil forced the lump past her throat and knew what she was getting into. This was like playing chicken riding a moped while Guillaume sat in a semi-truck. Not smart. Can I ask what the op is?  
  
It's a hit.  
  
You know I'M the one who does the hits, Guillaume, not Warden. He doesn't have the backbone for it.  
  
Oui, but I couldn' 'ave y' runnin' around, fuckin' wit' m' plans. Dat ain' how I run t'ings, pétite. Y'd be too smart fo'e me, I'd 'ave t' kill y'. Warden ain' like y'. He don' t'ink like dat. He's tryin' t' protect himself, an' de mark. Don' know why.  
  
You WANT him to protect the mark. You want an excuse to kill him, don't you?  
  
Non! Why woul' I do dat? Jus' t' waste a friend of yours? I ain' after petty revenge against an ol' lover, chère. I meant it when I said I loved y', an' I can accept de fact dat y' don' exactly reciprocate m' feelings, but I jest wan' dis opportunity t' make a point, an' it ain' t' you. I needed a hitman an' a hostage, and Warden jus' happened t' fit de roster perfectly.  
  
Why not someone else? Some superhero? Someone else, not Chris. He doesn't deserve to be caught up in one of your schemes. I don't know what it is you're after, but whenever anyone gets involved with you, they can never get uninvolved.  
  
True story, chère.  
  
So let him go, and take me.  
  
I t'ought I explained dis t' you, Soleil. Tol' y' dat he fits m' profile, he's de tool I need t' make m' point, an' don' worry, I won' kill him so long as he don' do anyt'in' you'd do.  
  
Anything stupid, do you mean?  
  
Mais, oui. Y' always frightened me wit' yo' tendency t' read m' mind.  
  
Funny isn't it?  
  
I won' 'ave 'im kill anyone important, I promise.  
  
Do they deserve it?  
  
De bastard murdered t'ree innocent people under m' command.  
  
Does he have children?  
  
Non, he's one o' dem lone wolf mercs. Jest need some time t' waste 'im. Den y'll get yo' partner back all safe an' sound, even minus de explosives I planted in 'is bloodstream.  
  
You didn't.  
  
I did.  
  
Why have you got to coerce HIM? He doesn't take well to pressure.  
  
Den he shouldn' 'ave b'come a mercenary, chère.  
  
You're picking on me, Guillaume.  
  
Non, I swear, I'm not. his tone softened, and she felt him sigh. Listen, Rebecca, if I could've used someone else, I woul' have. But he was so fuckin' perfec' dat I couldn' pass up de opportunity. All right? He'll do de hit, cry a lil' bit, an' run int' yo' waitin' arms.  
  
No, he won't cry, Guillaume. He's killed before. That's precisely why he doesn't do anymore hits. I do, because I can block it out, but he feels nothing when he kills, and that terrifies him.  
  
Is 'e any good?  
  
He's brilliant. No one would employ him because he wanted to stop killing, but that was his main qualification. But I needed someone who was as sick of the business as possible without wanting to quit it entirely, and I made him my machinery and technology buff.  
  
So e'll get de job done?  
  
You know it, you right bastard.  
  
Dat's de Soleil Étoile I know! All right, den, I guess y'll see 'im in a few days or so. De op goes down t'night.  
  
Tonight?!  
  
Oui, can' wait too long.  
  
All right. I suppose I'll see you. . .some other time.  
  
Oui, but don' coun' on seein' me too soon. I wanna wait till y' calm down b'fo'e seein' y' again. . .y' might try t' drop a psionic bomb on m' mindscape.  
  
She allowed herself a weak laugh. Just keep Warden safe, Guillaume. That's all I'm asking. I want my tech support back, all right?  
  
O'course, I won' break de homme. she felt a whisper of his smile against her mind, and then she pulled out of his, back into her own, and lifted Cerebro from her head, smoothing her hair and turning back to Jubilee.  
  
"Did you get anything?" the older woman inquired.  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Do you need backup?"  
  
"No, he's just. . .on vacation. Somewhat."  
  
"Vacation? I thought mercs don't have vacations."  
  
"Warden does whatever the hell he wants. He's sometimes a bit troublesome to work with."  
  
"I can understand that. So, did you want to say hello to anyone here? Jono misses you, ya know."  
  
"I don't think I can stay."  
  
"The Professor's due to return in a couple of days from the Shi'ar Empire."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So they diagnosed his problems?"  
  
"Yeah." Her face fell.  
  
"And they found a cure?"  
  
"Something like."  
  
"And?"  
  
Jubilee seemed to cringe, and her hand reached for Soleil's, taking it softly and squeezing gently. "Come on, I'll tell you in the kitchen. You should be sitting down."  
  
XXX 


	16. The Hit

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Sixteen: The Hit  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
The door opened, and a an in full Thief Guild regalia walked in. "It's time," he muttered, and held out a pair of Genoshan cuffs.   
  
"I'm not a m. . ."  
  
"You are in our books."  
  
Warden shrugged and allowed the Thief to snap them on, and lead him out of the room, down a hall, to an elevator, which he opened with a password on a keypad. After a few moments inside, the doors slid open and they walked out into a pristine office building. "Was that a teleporter?" his guard didn't say anything; he didn't even bother looking at him, and shoved him through a door into an office. Behind the wide maple desk sat Guillaume l'Rivière, scribbling notes in a planner and adding his signature of authorization to a select few documents. After a few moments, he looked up.  
  
"Ah, bonjour, M'sieu' Warden. Woul' y' like some coffee?"  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
"'Ow do y' take it?"  
  
"Black. With sugar."  
  
"All righty, den," l'Rivière nodded to the Guilder, who hurried out and returned momentarily with the requested liquor.  
  
"So what's going on with the op, then?"  
  
"In fifteen minutes, de homme's gonna be comin' up t' dis office. Y're gonna be sittin' in dat chair, an' you're gonna fire two shots. Dat'll 'ave t' kill 'im, but y'll 'ave t' move fast. . .dis homme is a merc, one of y'r own, as dey say."  
  
"Anyone I know?"  
  
"P'r'aps, mon ami. . ." l'Rivière pulled a package of Silk Cut from his desk and morphed momentarily into Pete Wisdom, lighting the cigarette with a hot-knife before sliding back into his own skin. "D'ya wan' 'is name?"  
  
"Yeah, that would be nice. . ."  
  
"All right. It be Garrett Clyde."  
  
"Clyde? He's one of the most notorious assassins in the North Territory." Warden's eyes narrowed. "It'll be a difficult hit. I hope you've planned this well."  
  
"'Ave, mon ami. I'm a Lord, after all." He grinned complacently.   
  
"True as that might be, have you disarmed him? Mentally, I mean. Have you lulled him into a false sense of security so the last thing on his mind is that you'd want to kill him?"  
  
"I've tried. 'E won' be expectin' dis t'day. I've already paid de homme, after all."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"Fo'e an op. Don' matter what it was, but I jest want y' t' know dat 'e went bad. 'E t'inks it came off all right, but 'e slipped up an' killed de wrong femme."  
  
"So this is over a woman, then?"  
  
"Somet'in' like. Not what y' t'ink, doe, Warden. She wasn' m' chère ami."  
  
"And you're telling me this. . .why?"  
  
"B'cause I don' wan' y' rattin' dis off t' Soleil b'cause y' t'ink I'm heartbroken. It's an ache of a different sort."  
  
"Did you want me to tell her something?"  
  
"Sure. Tell 'er dat it's fo'e Nynie." He shrugged, and, putting a hand into his desk again, he drew out a small police-issue nine. "Y' be a professional, non? Handle it wit' dis."  
  
"I can do that." Chris tucked the gun into his belt. "Is the clip full?"  
  
"Non, mon ami. . .dere be two shots in dere. Jest t' make certain Clyde's bit de bullet. No pun intended." He grinned sexily, winked at the merc. Warden would have blushed if he weren't so terrified. He was, admittedly, one of the best assassins in the Merc Community, but he hadn't killed anyone in over three years and Clyde was something of a shining star in the business. As though he'd read his thoughts, Guillaume muttered, "You can do it, Warden. Make R'becca proud, hien?" and he walked out of the office.  
  
Chris leaned back in the chair, opened a few drawers, just to be sure there weren't any explosives contained therein, and frowned when he found not even a cigar. Everything was organized neatly, though upon closer inspection he could tell that the papers on the desk were mock-ups of business deals to give the office an authentic feel. There were pale, latex-free rubber gloves sitting on the desk, and Warden tugged them on, erasing his fingerprints from the gun on his shirt. Sitting back and checking to see that the safety was removed, he waited for his prey.   
  
Not moments later, the desk-phone buzzed, and he picked it up.  
  
"Mr. Garrett is here to see you, are you ready for him?" a crisp, professional woman's voice said.   
  
"Yes, I am. Send him in, please." Warden replied, taking a deep breath. He hung up the phone and prepped himself mentally and physically. A shadow approached the ground glass at the office door, and the handle turned. Warden leveled the gun before Garrett even stepped in, and the moment he saw the pair of brown eyes, he fired one shot into each. The man crumpled instantly, bleeding profusely from the skull. Warden laid the gun on the desk and stepped toward the body, eyes vacant. The doorway filled again, but this time he was looking at l'Rivière, who was grinning like the cat who ate the canary.  
  
"Well done, mon ami." He laughed. "I never believed de ratin's y' get, but kudos t' y' fo'e surpassin' all my expectations. I t'ink y' might even be as good as I was back in de day." He chuckled again, this time more quietly, and his green eyes turned to foresty steel. "I guess y' can call R'becca now, den." Pulling a cell-phone from his pocket, he hit an auto-dial number and handed it to Warden. The Crime-lord snapped his fingers, summoning a dozen hulking body-guards. "Clean dis up, mes amis," he shrugged, and left the office.  
  
Warden held the phone to his ear, trembling a little, and not quite sure what he was going to say. When it was picked up, he closed his eyes and exulted silently. "H. . .hello? Guillaume? Is that you?"  
  
"No, Becky, it's Chris."  
  
"Warden! What the hell. . .?"  
  
"It's over. I did the op. It was Clyde Garrett."  
  
"Standard hit?"  
  
"Nah, I couldn't resist giving it my trademark. A bullet through each eye."  
  
"Damn. You know. . ."  
  
"They're never gonna find the body, you know. Or they will, only it won't BE his."  
  
"Right. l'Rivière's a genius that way, you know?"  
  
"Hell, he runs the biggest Crime conglomerate this side of anywhere."  
  
"So are you. . .are you all right?"  
  
"A little hungry. And I feel like noshing someone to have them drain this nitro out of my system."  
  
"It'll drain itself. It releases itself through your pores within seventy-two hours. He did the same thing to me, once."  
  
"Oh, shit."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just realized what's wrong with you."  
  
"Ha bloody ha, Chris. So, are you gonna. . .will you meet me in New York?"  
  
"Your little Institute? Xavier's? Are you kidding?"  
  
"Yeah. No, no I'm not. He's coming home soon, and I want you to meet him. It'll do you good to be put on his roster. That way, he'll be able to look out for you in a way our associates can't."  
  
"Do you mean Cerebro?"  
  
"Yeah. . .not so much anymore."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because. . .I'll tell you when you get here. Listen, put Guillaume on. I want to tell him something."  
  
"If you're wondering how much we're getting for the op, he's not robbing us. Hell, I'm pretty sure I would have taken the job if he'd have just asked straight-up."  
  
"He has ways about him. . .don't ask him. Just. . .would you put him on?"  
  
"If you insist." Warden stepped beyond the huddle of Guilders cleaning up the body, and out into the hall, where l'Rivière was going over some paperwork with an intern. "Hey, l'Rivière, she wants to ask you something."  
  
"If it's 'ow much y' be gettin' paid fo'e de op an' kidnappin', it's forty mill."  
  
"I told her, but I don't think that's what she wants."  
  
"Hum. All right, give de phone 'ere." Snatching the cell from Warden, Guillaume crooned into the receiver. "'Ello, chère. Long time, no see. 'Ow y' doin'?"  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"At m' office."  
  
"It was Garrett?"  
  
"Oui. Why d'ya ask?"  
  
There was silence on the other end for some time. 'You didn't have to do this, Guillaume."  
  
"Lissen, I didn' off de homme fo'e y', I did it fo'e a business deal. 'E killed Nynie, an' de benefit t' y' was incidental."  
  
"He. . .he WHAT?!"  
  
"Y' 'eard me. 'E killed 'er. Stupid American."   
  
"Huh. I'm. . .I'm so sorry. Have you had the funeral?"  
  
"Wit'out y'? Course not, chère! Why, Nynie'd roll over in 'er grave if she knew dat y' weren't present. After all, she was de one dat wan'ed me t' marry y'."  
  
"That's true. . .listen, I'm really sorry. I. . .I don't know what to say."  
  
"Dat's all right, chère. Don' sweat it, as y'd say under extreme duress."  
  
She chuckled over the phone, but her voice was lower, deeper. The news had stuck a sensitive chord in her. "All right, I'll see you later. Hey, will you do me a favor?"   
  
"Any't'in', chère."  
  
"Jet Warden over here, will you? Quickly? I wanna make sure nothing like this ever happens to him again."  
  
"Oooh, burn!" Guillaume forced a smile into his tone. "All right, chère. 'E'll be dere in two seconds."  
  
"Can I quote you on that?"  
  
"Can't y' take ANY'T'IN figuratively, chère?"   
  
"Yeah, sure. If you're going to be all hissy about it. I suppose I'll see you when I do. Would you give me back to my partner, now?"  
  
"Sure." He handed the phone to Warden, who was standing round with his hands in his pockets.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Chris, l'Rivière is going to ship you up to me. Just follow him, and if he tries anything stupid, tell me later so I can run wild on his mindscape."  
  
"All right, babe. I'll see you later, kay?"  
  
"See you, Chris. Be safe."  
  
"I'll try. Oh, hey, do you think Northstar's in New York?"  
  
She hung up.  
  
XXX 


	17. How To Correctly Turn Down a Proposition

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Seventeen: How to Correctly Turn Down a Proposition  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Jubilee keyed in the landing codes for the foreign aircraft, and watched as the small private jet lowered onto the empty runway. Its engines never shut off, but a set of steps was lowered and down them walked a tall, handsome man in his late thirties, blond-haired and blue-eyed. Rebecca rushed up to him, took a fistful of his collar, and decked him, hard. He fell to the ground, holding her securely round her middle, and they wrestled on the ground for a few moments before she struggled back to her feet and pulled him up behind her with a telekinetic hand. As they came abreast of her, Rebecca introduced them.  
  
"Jubilee, this is Chris Warden, my partner. Chris, Jubilation Lee of X-Cell."  
  
"Wow," he muttered. "You have all the latest gadgets from the Maker, Soleil tells me."  
  
"Yeah, he's the leader of X-Factor; he still ships us the newest designs for his inventions."  
  
"I'm jealous." Warden grinned and winked. Jubilee nodded back, shook his hand so firmly he winced.  
  
"Look, Jubilee, Warden got himself kidnapped, and I don't want it to happen again. Would you mind if I keyed his masked psionic signature into Cerebro?"  
  
"Of course not. Hey, listen, the Professor is arriving tomorrow morning. Would you like to meet him?'  
  
"The great Charles Francis Xavier. . .messiah of mutant-kind and crippled hero of the world. . .who wouldn't?" Chris gushed.  
  
"Great. He can have the room across from yours, Beck. Look, M and Sabes aren't exactly thrilled about your staying here. I can knock some sense into M, she's my subordinate, but Creed will be Creed will be Creed; I learned that the hard way after twenty years of fighting him. But I can have Wolvie hit him a couple of times and that might do the trick."  
  
Rebecca finally laughed. "Might also piss him off enough to do some damage to Warden here. He wasn't wowed with my choice of mercenary partners, tech support or not. Maybe we should just stay out of his way."  
  
"That might be a good idea," Chris turned a delicate shade of green.  
  
"Then I guess I'll see you later. I have a Danger Room drill in five minutes, and I still have to suit up and program the damn Sims."  
  
"All right, catch you later." Rebecca and Warden said their goodbyes, and headed up toward the dormitories. They waited for the elevator to take them up to surface level, and as they stepped out, Warden nudged her in the ribs. "What is it now? Are you STILL worried about that nitro?"  
  
"No, I'm not. I didn't know that your husband doesn't approve of me."  
  
"EX-husband. And no, as I recall, he described you as a quote, 'ball-less arsehole.' Or some-such ridiculous emasculating slur."  
  
"I certainly hope you defended my manhood."  
  
"I did. I told Vic that he only thought you were green because he's so ancient."  
  
Warden knit his brow. "I don't see how that helps me. You should have told him that I was most certainly NOT ball-less, and that you knew through experience."  
  
"You're gay."  
  
"But he doesn't have to know that."  
  
"Would you rather be ball-less figuratively or ball-less literally? Because even though we're divorced, I'm sure he wouldn't blink at castrating you. He might even do it cheerfully."  
  
Warden paled again. "You think?"  
  
"Yes," she opened a door and shoved him inside. "This is your new room for the next few days. I'm just across the hall if you need me, but I'm going to take a shower and do some katas, so don't bother me."  
  
"My, you're nurturing. Two and a half hours after my ransom is paid in blood to a major Crime-lord and you're already abandoning me."  
  
"You're a grown man, Chris. Take care of yourself." She growled. "Oh, and I want that forty mill locked down in our accounts before dinner. Make sure it's good and safe, and build a decent firewall around it, will you? I don't even want the bank to know how much cash we have in there, you understand? Oh, and you might even distribute it round to our other accounts."  
  
"All right, all right. Damn women. THIS is why I've forsworn you, you know? "  
  
"Oh, so now it's MY fault you're gay?"  
  
"Absolutely!"  
  
"Oh, stow it and get to work, you happy little pansy." She hissed, pecked him on the cheek, and stormed off to her room.   
  
XXX  
  
Rebecca centered herself and brought her hands to her stomach, palms flat against her abdominal muscles, feeling the hollow between her ribcage and pelvis, connecting with her inner peace. . .  
  
*KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!*  
  
"Who's there?" she inquired coolly, bringing her left knee to her chest, arching her back and dipping her torso beneath her leg, supporting herself with her fingertips.   
  
"Monet!"  
  
"Come in," she called, lowering herself to the ground and allowing her leg to rest against the back of her neck, extending both arms to her sides. The door opened and closed. Rebecca's eyes remained closed, but her spatial telepathy had keyed her in to Monet's presence long before she had knocked on the door. "Good afternoon, Ms. St. Croix. How has your day been so far?"  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"Even mercenaries need sanctuary."  
  
"Victor told me he'd gotten rid of you."  
  
"Victor doesn't order me around, Monet," Rebecca's tone turned from unperturbed halcyon to icy granite. "I came here to ensure my partner's safety. And to see Jonothon. You can be assured that I no longer have any interest in Victor. To put it crudely, he's all yours."  
  
"He told me what you told him."  
  
"I've told him a lot of things. What did he tell you I said?"  
  
"That you loved him."  
  
"I also told him that I wasn't here to 'get him back.' Unless I'm very much mistaken, the divorce was highly amicable and entirely mutual."  
  
"He served you first."  
  
"I won't lie to you, Monet," Rebecca disentangled herself from the complicated yoga pose she had assumed, and stood up calmly. "That still bothers me, but for the sole reason that the name 'Creed' promoted me in the eyes of the mercenary community."  
  
"That's what he says, as well."  
  
"You can be assured, Monet, that I won't be going after Victor any time soon. Did I say that I was IN love with him? No. I said that I loved him." She paused, to allow Monet to interject her own opinion, but when the Monocan aristocrat remained silent, she continued. "I'll put it this way. Say your father gave you a puppy for your birthday. That puppy grew into a dog, and protected your every waking moment, and even when he was not with you, troublemakers skirted you for fear of his retaliation. You would grow to love the creature, would you not?"  
  
"Are you comparing your own ex-husband to an animal?"  
  
"He IS an animal, Monet. That you cannot change, and you most certainly cannot ignore it." Rebecca stared into the older woman's eyes, her expression neutral. "I'm not here for Victor. In fact, he is one of the reasons it was a toss-up between the X-Men and S.H.I.E.L.D.; because I didn't want to have to confront either him or you. Look," she ran a hand through her damp hair, glistening in the dim, sconce light. "I don't want to argue with either of you. I just want to live. I'll be gone the day after tomorrow. I'm merely here to consolidate ties, to check my partner's psi-signature into Cerebro, have a nice chat with Xavier, and I'll be off to a safe-house first thing."  
  
"What was it between you and Guillaume l'Rivière?"  
  
Momentarily taken aback by Monet's forthrightness, Rebecca raised a brow. "What precisely are the ramifications posed by telling you that we were once casual lovers?"  
  
"Once?"  
  
"Tell me how far this is going to go."  
  
"Not past the walls of my mind. I promise not to tell anyone."  
  
"It isn't as though everyone doesn't already know," Rebecca rolled her eyes. "I'm surprised you didn't."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Sit down," Rebecca assumed the lotus position on her bed, and Monet fell onto the mattress beside her. "When Guillaume and I first began seeing one another, I was a rebound. So was he. I was having trouble with my. . .marriage, if it could have been called that, and the love of his life had just been sucked into a temporal black hole to save her team leader's life."  
  
"Phoenix II?" Monet's eyes grew wide.  
  
"Yes, Phoenix II. We've never been very serious. We've slept together on and off over the years."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
"Yes, that's all. And why do you bring him up at this time?"  
  
"Jubilee told me that he's the first one you went to when you realized your partner had been kidnapped."  
  
Rebecca was about to set her straight, but thought better of it. If Jubilee hadn't told Monet what had happened, it was because that was the extent to which she trusted her. "Yes, he was the first person I went to, but only because he was the last person to see Warden."  
  
"Is he here?"  
  
"Who, Guillaume?"  
  
"No, Chris Warden."  
  
"Yes, he's actually. . .would you like to meet him?"  
  
"To tell you the truth, I've been rather curious about him. . .Victor trashes his abilities at every chance he gets."  
  
"He WOULD." Rebecca rolled her eyes. "You should consider having him take those pills that lower testosterone," to her surprise, Monet giggled, covering her mouth with a slim, perfectly-manicured hand. "I wasn't making a joke, I was serious."  
  
"Yes, I know. That's what makes it so. . .humorous."  
  
"So about Warden. . .he's had a bit of a rough time of things, but I could probably get him up."  
  
"Are you two. . ."  
  
"Sleeping together? No, we're partners. I don't ruin business relationships that way," replied the mercenary tactfully, as Warden was not officially out of the closet quite yet. "All right, then. I'll get him. If you'd just wait here," Standing up, she went across the hall and burst into Warden's room. "Get up, Chris. I need to introduce you to Monet St. Croix. Act like you're slobbering all over her, will you?"  
  
"Jesus, Becky! Don't you ever fucking knock?" Chris demanded, searching frantically for his boxers and coming up with a soggy towel, which he promptly wrapped around his waist.  
  
"Get dressed. And it's not like you do, either. This way I don't have to cut your throat for literally jumping in on me in the shower."  
  
"What? I like it when the bathroom is already steamy. And you need someone to wash your back." Chris knit his brow. "Besides, you said. . ."  
  
"Never mind that. Just drool over her, all right?"  
  
"All right." Chris rolled his eyes, dropped the towel without so much as a flicker, and, reaching into his open duffel bag, he pulled out a pair of faded LEVIs and tugged them on.  
  
"You're not wearing underwear?"  
  
"Nah. I still remember how to pick up chicks, Becky."  
  
"Don't call me Becky, Warden."  
  
"Fine. Do you want them to think I'm fucking you?" he reached behind her, shoved the door open as he pulled on a threadbare gray wifebeater.  
  
"Not unless she starts going on and on about Creed. And it's just St. Croix."  
  
"Not anymore." Chris grinned, and waved to Nightcrawler. Rebecca rolled her eyes.  
  
"Oh, bollocks. A Catholic and a gay man." She sighed. "At least he isn't a homophobe," she grabbed Chris by the forearm and dragged him into her room.   
  
"So this is the famous Chris Warden, mercenary par excellence?" Monet raised a brow, evidently evaluating the "goods." Warden pasted on his best "stud" look and shoved a hand out.  
  
"Monet St. Croix?"  
  
"Charmed," murmured the aristocrat.   
  
"And this is Kurt Wagner, or Nightcrawler, a teleporter," Rebecca motioned Chris toward Kurt.   
  
"Pleased to meet you," to her relief, Chris strained out every last streak of innuendo from his voice.  
  
"Same to you, Herr Warden." Kurt bared his fangs, slipped an arm around Rebecca's waist. "How have you been, liebling? I worried."  
  
"Don't. I'm fine. Warden's been taking good care of me."  
  
"I sure have. Don't you worry about her." Grinned Chris.  
  
"So, tell me, Monsieur Warden," Monet purred, stroking his hand. "What is it like working so closely with one of the X-Men's best?"  
  
"Pardon? You worked with the X-Men, Becca?"  
  
"For a few months," she shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought I'd told you."  
  
"You told me your brother worked with the X-Men. Nearly had a heart-attack when ya told me he was Jonothon Starsmore, THE breakthrough punk/metal artist of the decade!" Rebecca cringed at the whining tone creeping into his voice.  
  
"Get over it," she shrugged, and turned toward Kurt. "Were you looking for me?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, I was. Ah. . .Cyclops wanted to talk with you. He's in the Professor's library." Kurt lowered his eyes from Warden's. "Would you like me to escort you?"  
  
"Please. Oh, and Monet, I'm sure you won't begrudge leading Warden to the kitchen? He's starving; hasn't had anything to eat in the past thirty-eight hours or so."  
  
Monet smiled thinly, delighted that Rebecca would so naïvely leave her alone with Chris. "Of course. Shall we?" she extended her arm to Warden, and led him out into the hall, toward the elevator.  
  
"He doesn't seem gay," Kurt reflected as the two left ear-shot.  
  
"One of the nicest things about him is that he doesn't throw it in people's faces."  
  
"Like Jean-Paul?"  
  
"No, Jean-Paul is openly gay, but he's masculine. He's not pretending to be a woman or anything." She rolled her eyes. "Which is nice, because he doesn't mind it when women admire him. Because he IS rather sexy, you know?"  
  
Kurt sighed. "Let's go," he wrapped an arm around her waist and teleported across the mansion to Xavier's library. They ended up in a beautiful wing-backed chair, with Rebecca sprawled across his lap. As they arrived, Scott turned and lifted a brow. Kurt teleported away.  
  
"Good evening, Soleil."  
  
"How's th' wife, Summers?" she smiled brashly, and Scott's eyebrows drew together slightly. However, when he realized she was genuinely interested and not making either conversation or a snide observation.  
  
"She's due back with the Professor tomorrow." He confirmed. "She says she hasn't caught any intergalactic flus quite yet."  
  
"That's nice. As I recall, those Shi'ar cure-alls are really rather nasty."  
  
"Indeed they are."  
  
"So what was it that you wanted to talk with me about?"  
  
"I just wanted to ask about. . .ah. . ." he sighed, and sat down, not in the Professor's chair behind the wide oak desk, but on a small leather stool beside her wing-back. "We've known each other, albeit from a reasonable distance, for over fifteen years, haven't we?"  
  
"I believe it's safe to say that."  
  
"I can be straight with you without worrying that you'll take it the wrong way?"  
  
"If this is about Creed, I can assure you that I'm not here to start anything up. He's happy, I'm doing what he'd never let me, we're divorced, and that's all."  
  
"That's good to know, and I'm glad we've covered that early on, but that's not exactly what I wanted to ask you."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
"I'm just going to go ahead and say it. No fancy speeches and long roads leading up to the point. I'm going to. . ."  
  
"Then do, Summers." She smirked. "You're doing that deputy leader thing that everyone hates you for. It's actually rather endearing."  
  
Scott cleared his throat. "Look, when the Professor heard you were here, he asked me to give you a sales pitch."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"He wants you to join the X-Men."  
  
Rebecca pursed her lips. "You know I've just begun to build myself up a reputable name and I'm finally getting good business. . .I'm well-known enough that I can pick and choose my jobs. . .no more Black Ops scape-goating for Warden and I."  
  
"I understand that, and even though the Professor seems to be hell-bent on acquiring your. . .expertise, I wouldn't have asked you if he hadn't ordered me to."  
  
She raised a brow. "Human, after all, are we?"  
  
"Don't be snide." He muttered, "I just can't see you in a uniform. Look, I don't have anything against you as a person, and I think you're probably worth two or three of myself. . .you've seen a lot of action, you've gotten a lot of training. Your life hasn't been a bed of roses, but that usually contributes to a healthy understanding of violence and how it's not going to solve anything. As far as I hear, you're the one doing the hits in your. . .partnership with Warden, and while I don't have any problem with that. . ."  
  
"I'm a killer, and you're afraid that I don't take life seriously enough to be an X-Man."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
She snorted. "You're probably right. But I wouldn't take the job, even if I were qualified."  
  
"You ARE qualified!" Scott hastened to add, "even more than some of the present X-Men are. I'm just afraid that down the line, our interests will collide."  
  
"I'm not a Utopian, Scott. I don't know if I ever could be," she shrugged, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Neither of our pasts have been pretty, but you X-Men have always shown me a home. . .a real one, not like the ostentatious, perfection-driven clashes I've had with Nath. . .Sinister, but true acceptance. I hope that turning this job offer down won't take away any brownie points I may have won in the past, and I'm always open to helping the X-Men if that's what you need, but I have a career, and if I were to join you, where would Warden be? He'd have to go back to being a professional assassin, and I'm the only mercenary in the world, possibly, who'd give him tech-support as a primary."  
  
"So I hear."  
  
"I don't know how to tell Xavier," she shrugged, her eyes avoiding the red slash in his visor.  
  
"I'll tell him, Rebecca," Scott covered her hand in his. She looked down at it, and realized she'd never quite looked at his hands before. . .they were so capable, so strong, yet his fingers tapered sensitively like those of an artist.  
  
"No, I should face him myself. You shouldn't have to be the one to disappoint him."  
  
He chuckled. "So you hate that look, too?"  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"That look he gets, when you've just told him something that breaks his heart, and he's not angry with you, just wrestling with himself. . ."  
  
"And the weight of the world." She added, quietly.   
  
"Huh. Seems like we have more in common than I figured."  
  
"Yeah. So this is all right, then?"  
  
"Water under the bridge."  
  
"Thanks, Summers."  
  
"Quit that," he remonstrated. "It's Scott, and you've never once called me by my first name."  
  
"I figured we weren't at that stage yet."  
  
"Fifteen years, Rebecca."  
  
"Well, you've just proved me wrong, now, haven't you?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess."  
  
"So, Scott. Thanks for your time, and the chat. Hey, you want to grab lunch tomorrow?"  
  
"I can't, Jean'll be home, and I don't want her. . .you remember that whole fiasco with Emma Frost. . ." he was suddenly uncomfortable, and stammered.  
  
"God, Scott, that was over. . .what, twelve years ago? And she STILL holds that against you?" he shrugged.  
  
"Nah, I'd just rather not take any chances of her getting suspicious. I really do love her still, you know."  
  
"Hey, hey," she held both her hands up. "Don't shrink to me. I'm the cold-blooded killer, remember?" she murmured. "Besides, it makes me uncomfortable when you open up. You're an intimidating man, Scott. Or did you need a shoulder to cry on?"  
  
"Don't worry about it. Just as long as you're not looking for a place on my team," he joked. "It's all good."  
  
"All right. I'd better get to sleep. . .it's getting late."  
  
"It's barely ten o'clock. What, the big, bad mercenary lady needs to get her beauty rest?"  
  
"What're you suggesting?" she grinned.  
  
"Some of the guys are going down to Harry's to grab some beers. I wasn't going to go, but if you want to bring Warden, I could drive you."  
  
"What in?" she quirked a brow. "Not your old-lady Beamer, I hope?"  
  
"Nah, I was thinking more vintage '69 Mustang."  
  
"I love you Summerses. Your ideas of big gestures are so crap. All right, give me fifteen minutes to find Warden, and I'll meet you in the driveway."  
  
"Great." He grinned, and, as she stood up, he pulled her into a hard, one-armed hug. "It's good to have you home, Rebecca, even if you're leaving soon."  
  
"It's good to BE home. I'm indebted to Warden for getting himself kidnapped." She grinned. "I'm glad you're loosening up. Who knows, that carrot might fall out of your arse yet." She winked and closed the library door behind her.  
  
XXX  
  
"Warden, come on!"  
  
"No, I'm enjoying pretending to be heterosexual."  
  
"If you want to convince them of your manliness, you're going to have to accompany me to Harry's Hardcase."  
  
"But, Becky. . ." Warden was silenced when he felt a sharp stinging sensation in his head. "You're not giving me a telepathic lobotomy, are you?"  
  
"I'm prepping for one. Get your arse into the driveway, NOW!" she huffed, then walked into the next room, where Monet was waiting for Warden to return. "Monet, I'm afraid I'm going to have to steal Chris away for a few hours. . .Scott's insisting that we bond with the remainder of the team over some beers, and I can't go without a chaperon."  
  
"Of course, I understand."  
  
"All right, then, I'll see you later." Monet smiled and left the room. Rebecca pursed her lips in surprise. "Well, look at that, that was quite nearly civil." She paced back to Chris and grabbed his arm. "You ready?"  
  
"Of course," he straightened his tight black turtleneck, and slipped an arm around her waist. "Mmm, you smell lovely. What are you wearing?"  
  
"Nothing. It's the Xavier conditioner. Come on, let's get out of here, Scott's offered to take us in his vintage baby."  
  
"Ooh, does that mean you won't be driving? That we might just arrive with some of our limbs still attached and our vital organs in one piece?" his big, blue eyes were snidely eager.  
  
"You ARE such a wanker, you know." She sighed, and dragged him out to the front of the mansion, where Scott was leaning against the cherry-red convertible (which presently had it's roof up), his arms crossed over his chest. Rebecca swallowed. He looked. . .edible, in a pair of faded, pressed jeans, sitting just tight and low enough that she could see the line of his pelvic bone, a white t-shirt, and a brown leather jacket. She laughed as she slid into the passenger's seat of the car. "You look like James Dean, Scott," when Warden hovered nauseatingly, she snapped a telepathic order to him to get into the back and quit pouting.  
  
Scott revved the little car up, and they sped through the gates and down Greymalkin Lane. Five minutes (and several broken speed-limits) later, they pulled up at Harry's, where a coven of Harleys and racing bikes were lined up against the sidewalk. Rebecca stepped out, and, with Scott on one arm and Warden on the other, they stepped into the little pub.  
  
XXX 


	18. Molson's, Pool, and Approval

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Eighteen: Molson's, Pool, and Approval  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Harry's patrons were accustomed to seeing one man draw all the female attention in the bar, but they'd never seen anything like this before. The statuesque blonde woman shooting billiards in the corner table drew everyone's eyes to her with a practiced ease that said worlds about her self-esteem. She looked dangerous in the spike-heeled boots, faded jeans and a men's ribbed A-tank. Her eyes were hooded, but every time she looked up, their color could be identified as the same hue of the sea on a stormy night.  
  
Victor upended his beer, growled under his breath about something or other, and attempted to keep his eyes off his ex-wife. "Damn the woman, she ain't changed a bit. I'm glad ta have gotten rid o' that bear-trap."  
  
"Could've fooled me, Creed," Logan hopped up on a bar stool just beside his old CIA buddy's. "Th' way yer lookin' at her. . .well, let's just hope it never gets back ta Monet."  
  
"Shut it, runt." Victor snarled. "Keep her nose outta my business."  
  
"Difficult ta do when I can smell yer hormones goin' crazy all over th' damn bar." His eyes slid over to rest on Rebecca's backside, as she leant over to line up her shot, though it wasn't long before Sam Guthrie obstructed the tantalizing view, and gave the evil eye to all the bar patrons he didn't know. "Distractin', ain't she?"  
  
"Quit lookin', runt. She ain't yers ta look at."  
  
"She ain't anyone's ta look at, but that ain't stoppin' 'em. Hey, Harry, another Molson's, will ya?" he waved his empty bottle at the barkeep.  
  
"She was yer damn sister-in-law."  
  
"Not that I knew of."  
  
A rumble came from low in Victor's chest. "So what exactly is it between the two o' you?"  
  
"I ain't sure. I'm still gettin' used ta th' fact that she ain't Sinister's lapdog no more. An' Jubes says that they used ta be close, ya know? I haven't quite swallowed that yet."  
  
"So you never took 'er on any dates?"  
  
"I've taken her out ta dinner, but never any dates, no. Look, Creed, it ain't like she's yers ta take care of anymore. Lookit 'er, don't she make a cute couple with Guthrie?" he motioned toward the pool table, where she'd just trounced him, and was tugging a twenty-dollar bill from his reluctant fingers.  
  
"He ain't interested in 'er that way." Victor murmured, as though to reassure himself.  
  
"An' how th' hell do ya know THAT, Creed?" Logan countered. "Look at how close they stand t' each other. They ain't inhibited, they're friends. They've been friends fer th' better part o' sixteen years, an' in my experience, it only takes so long before they realize that they've both grown sizeable libidos by now."  
  
"Don't bait me, runt."  
  
"That's 'brother' ta you, Creed."  
  
Victor snorted. "So that makes you a Creed, too, then, don't it?"  
  
"Nope. That makes you a Logan."   
  
"Says who? I'm th' only one who remembers a full name. . .you only got one. Whether it's yer given or surname, nobody knows."  
  
"I know it's MY name. Fer sure."  
  
Victor rolled his eyes. "Whatever ya say, runt."  
  
"Yer gonna haveta start acceptin' me as family someday, ya know that?"  
  
"I guess." For a moment, the bigger feral seemed plunged in pensive reverie. Then, he looked up, straight into Logan's eyes. "That mean yer gonna be m' best man when I marry Monet?"  
  
"If yer really plannin' ta marry her." Shrugged Logan.   
  
"What was THAT supposed ta mean?"  
  
"Nothin'."  
  
"Ya think I'm playin' fast an' loose with a woman whose biological clock's been tickin' fer six years yet? Hell, how stupid do ya think I am?"  
  
Logan sipped his fresh beer thoughtfully. "Hadn't thought o' that. Ain't she invulnerable an' freakishly strong, too?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Dominatrix type, is she?"  
  
"I ain't discussin' Monet an' my sex life with you!"  
  
"So she's got ya whipped, now, has she?" grinned Logan. "That's a conversation I'd like ta have with her, instead o' you." Getting to his feet, the diminutive feral swaggered over to the pool table and slapped a fifty down on the edge. "Hey, Starsmore, wanna play a REAL man?" Sam laughed at the good-humored ribbing in Logan's voice. Unseen by all in the corner, Victor winced when Logan used Rebecca's maiden name, then wondered how he would have felt had he called her "Creed."  
  
"Sure," she laughed, and pulled out two twenties and a ten, half of her winnings that evening, and cast a glance round the bar, confirmed that Chris and Jean-Paul were sitting in a booth quietly getting to know one another. Replacing her cue and choosing another, she chalked up the end as Logan arranged the balls on the table. "Straight up billiards, winner takes all."  
  
"Sounds good ta me." Logan grinned, and selected his own cue. "I'll break."  
  
"Fair enough," Rebecca raised a brow, winked at Victor, sitting alone at the bar. He seemed to ignore her, and turned back to his drink with a snarl. Disregarding the pang of constant remorse that suddenly flared to life beneath Victor's gaze, she watched Logan tug his cue back, and sink two balls neatly into the pockets. "Very nice," she brushed against him as he walked by to line up his next shot, "But we'll see how long you can keep this up."  
  
XXX  
  
Logan sunk the eight-ball squarely, a gleam in his eye, and turned around, resting his cue on his boot-toe. "So that's what, fifty dollars ya owe me, Starsmore?"  
  
Rebecca cocked a hip, pouted. "All right, all right. You've kept up your machismo in front of all your drinking buddies, and you're never going to see me naked." The onlookers laughed.  
  
"Aw, darlin', that's all right. Money's sweeter'n. . .wait, I must be goin' insane. I demand a re-match."  
  
"You won, why would you want a re-match?" Rebecca shot him a sultry smile.  
  
"So's I can give ya yer money back. I'm a gentleman, darlin'."  
  
"Well then, gentleman, why don't you quit yappin' and buy me a drink instead of forfeiting your hard-earned cash."  
  
"That I can do, darlin'. Hey, Harry!" he bellowed. "What'll ya have, Starsmore?"  
  
"Whatever you're drinking," she smiled.  
  
"Two Molson's over here, Harry!" he called in the general direction of the bar, scowled when Gambit sidled up and caught Rebecca by the waist.  
  
"Hey, chère, y' look like y' need some cheerin' up. Let Remy help, eh?"  
  
"Hey, LeBeau, get yer mitts off her. She's with me fer th' evenin'."  
  
"I don' b'lieve y' understand de situation. Mademoiselle Starsmore, she be mon soeur. Now if y' 'ave any. . .intentions t'ward 'er, I suggest y' eider cancel dem or step outside, cause Remy be obligated t' royally kick yo' ass on behalf o' mon soeur's honor."  
  
"Oh, give it a rest, LeBeau!" she rolled her eyes, and slid her gaze toward the booth at which Warden and Jean-Paul had been sitting. It was unsurprisingly enough empty. When her beer came around, she took a healthy swallow, sighed, noticed Victor at the bar, still pouting. Vic? You bored?  
  
What th'. . .stay the hell outta my mind, Becca.  
  
She rolled her eyes and took four long strides over to where he sat brooding over an empty shot glass and a half-full bottle of whiskey. "What're you trying to do, get pissed off your arse? It's not going to work. As I recall, it takes about five bottles to get you going."  
  
"Yep. Sounds about right." He murmured, "Why're ya still here, Becca?"  
  
"Because." She rolled her eyes. "I need to speak with Xavier."  
  
"Yer bluffin'."  
  
"You think I'm such a glutton for self-punishment that I'm staying for YOU? My God, Vic, how bigheaded ARE you?" she sighed, sipped her beer again. "Look, Xavier offered me a commission in the X-Men via Scott."  
  
"I didn't know Summers liked mercs joinin' his crew."  
  
"He doesn't. Xavier asked him to make me a pitch, but he made it abundantly clear that he didn't support the move."  
  
"So what does this mean? That yer stayin' fer good?"  
  
"I declined, Vic. Not because I'm afraid of wanting to be near you, not because I'm just feeling contrary. Hell, Xavier's fees are giant! He's a fucking billionaire!"  
  
"So why'd ya decline?"  
  
"Because. I have a business with Warden. He's a good partner, and I can't leave him."  
  
"Leave him in the business way, or leave him in th' personal way?"  
  
"Both." He snarled, couldn't stop himself. "We're not romantically involved, Vic. He's my friend. My partner. He's saved my life three times already, and I've saved his at least as many times. He has a penchant for getting into really bad situations."  
  
"Like th' one ya just got him out of?"  
  
"He got himself out of it." She shrugged. "Look, Vic, all I want from you is. . .damn. I can't believe I'm saying this. Look, all my life, I've wanted someone, just once, to tell me I've done something right. I didn't exactly have a model childhood, and the closest Natty ever came to praise was 'what a brilliant specimen you are, child.' Then you came into my life. . .again, and it seemed to me that you. . .cared, at least a little. That's when I transferred everything I had in me to you. I've worked all these years, I've given my blood and sweat and tears just to hear you say that you're proud of me. That I was doing something right. You never have, and I've given up hope that you ever will!" she finished in an angry whisper, downed the rest of her beer, and slammed the bottle onto the bar. "Damn it, Vic. Good night." She sighed, and rushed toward Sam, hooking her arm into his.   
  
"Hey, Rebecca," he drawled. "Ah've been waitin' foah ya ta finish that pool game."  
  
"Drive me home, Sammy?"  
  
"Anythang foah th' lady." He laughed, and put his arm around her waist, when a hand closed around his wrist.  
  
"I'll drive ya home, Beck." Victor growled. "It's th' least I can do."  
  
She cocked a brow. "For what?" Sam slid out from between them, certain the blood would soon be flowing.  
  
"Fer insultin' ya. I had no place sayin'. . ." though he wasn't precisely sure what he was apologizing for, Creed was certain there was was SOMETHING to atone for. ". . .anythin'. Fergive me?"  
  
"Frankly, Vic, I don't think there's anything TO forgive. You've behaved reproachlessly, and if you drive me home, Monet will undoubtedly fly into a jealous rage. I'll just. . ." she shrugged. "I'll take myself home, Sammy," she called loudly. "I need some air, anyhow. Clear my mind." She grinned and waved at Logan and Gambit, and left the bar. Victor frowned when Scott followed her out, but she was none of his business anymore, and she would indubitably remind him of the fact if he interfered.  
  
XXX 


	19. Of Optical and Emotional Shields

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Nineteen: Of Optical and Emotional Shields  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
XXX  
  
Scott's long strides soon brought him abreast of Rebecca. "Hey,"  
  
"I can walk myself home, Scott. I don't need a chaperon for everything." Her blue eyes narrowed.  
  
"I've gotta get home, too. I wanna get up early so I can meet Jean and the Professor."  
  
"Oh, that's right."  
  
"So. . .ah. . .are you all right?"  
  
"Yeh, of course. Why would I not be?" she smiled perkily. Scott groaned.   
  
"So you wanna play it THAT way?"  
  
"Yeah, I do."  
  
"All right. Then I'll take the few extra minutes to explain what I think is going on. You and Creed had one of your weird little 'moments' where you told him something extremely significant and he, being male and extremely dense, didn't get that it was important to you. You, knowing that he's an idiot, decided to make things easier on the both of you and excused yourself before his brain caught up with yours at least halfway and asked you to explain exactly what you meant."  
  
"You're surprisingly introspective."  
  
"For a man."  
  
"Did I say that?"  
  
"No, but it was hanging off the edge of your tongue, and I wanted to say it just so your eyes would go wide like that."  
  
"You like surprising people, don't you?"  
  
"I don't get to as often as you think." She snickered. "What?"  
  
"Your sense of humor. It's. . .surprisingly refreshing."  
  
"Oh? I've been told it's a little dry."  
  
"Yeah, it is. But it's refreshing all the same. It must be nice to unwind like this, after being a leader-person all the time."  
  
"It is."  
  
"So you really DO relax like ordinary men." She marveled. "I used to think you were some kind of machine, who generated and demanded perfection."  
  
"I don't demand perfection," Scott blushed furiously. Rebecca laughed. "Stop that, I KNOW I'm blushing!" he chuckled. "I guess I do sometimes."  
  
"You demand perfection from yourself and others. I suppose I understand where you're coming from, but all the same, it's nice to see you so relaxed." She stopped walking, and he turned around. "What would you do if I said. . ." she noted the way his back suddenly snapped straight, the way his shoulders squared. "Don't worry; I'm not going to proposition you. I was just wondering. . .telekinetic shields restrain your optic blasts. If you took your glasses off and I. . ." she lifted her hands toward his eyewear, and he started away.  
  
"Please don't." she looked down at his hands; they were trembling.  
  
"I won't hurt you."  
  
"I know you won't. But I don't know whether. . ."  
  
"I'll be fine. Even if you DO hit me, my psionisis repairs my body at an accelerated rate, unless you've forgotten that incident at The Hague?" she lifted her hands again, and this time he stood stock-still, but his posture didn't relax for a moment. "Open your eyes, Scott." She said softly. "I need to reinforce telekinetic shields over them, so I can take your glasses off." He did so, and she carefully laid a light shield over each cornea. "Can you feel the air against them?"  
  
"A little bit." His voice was low and whispery. She reinforced the shields slightly. "There."  
  
"Can you feel the shields? Any discomfort?"  
  
"No, none. They're just. . .warm."  
  
"Can I take your glasses off?"   
  
"I will." He turned around, and lifted his head, so his eyes were directed at the sky, and yanked the frames off in a swift, rather nervous movement. No sun-generated concussive bolts shot from them. His jaw dropped, and he flicked his gaze back to Rebecca. She beamed. "How did you. . ."  
  
"I was just wondering. I'm amazed that Jean never thought of this." She stared into his glowing red eyes. "You look great. I've never seen you out of your stylish eyewear."   
  
"I. . .I haven't. . .I mean. . ." he stammered, and caught his breath. "It's amazing. I haven't been without glasses for. . .years. . .without my eyes closed. . ."  
  
"Don't talk, you look a little overwhelmed, Scott." She laughed, and reassumed their stroll. "You look great, by the way. You have pretty eyelashes. Come on, let's get you home."   
  
"How can. . .thanks, Rebecca." He took three quick strides toward her and enveloped her in a firm hug. She choked.  
  
"Oh, my. Scott Summers showing EMOTION!" she squeezed his ribs until they creaked. "Call the newspapers. And you're welcome." She grinned.  
  
"I don't know what to say."  
  
"You've thanked me AND given me a hug, Scott. What more IS there?" she shrugged. "Hey, you know, without your glasses, you look a bit like Remy."  
  
"You've gotta be kidding." He snickered.   
  
"Oh, I'm not. Especially in this leather jacket and tight jeans you're wearing." He smiled, mildly embarrassed. "Hey, just because I can see your eyes now doesn't mean you have to change your face to match their color."  
  
"You're doing your damndest to humiliate me."  
  
"Gasp!" she clutched her heart, "I've been discovered! Hell, Sherlock, you're just begging for it with that innocent face. Besides, your worst nightmare is being changed into Remy. Come to think of it. . ." she squinted in the dim light. "If you were a little leaner, a little ganglier, you two could pass as brothers."  
  
"So I've been told," he said quietly. There was a long pause as they continued walking along the side of the road. "Rebecca, I just want you to know that when I say that I don't want you with the X-Men, that I don't mean. . .I mean, you're extremely talented, and you'd be an extremely hot commodity, and I think extremely highly of you. . ."  
  
She chuckled. "I never thought Scott Summers was a man of extremes." She reflected, and they laughed comfortably. "Look, I know what you mean. And I'm not offended. Neither of us want me on the Team, and neither of us need to get upset about that. It's a good state of affairs. Besides, YOU'RE not the one who has to face the Professor tomorrow."  
  
"All these years of battle and he can still make me feel all of ten years old with a single disapproving look." Scott sighed. "I feel for you."  
  
"Please do." She rolled her eyes, then frowned. "Hey, what about your car?"  
  
"I left the keys with Bobby before I left the bar. He drives like a little old lady, won't put a scratch on it unless he wants me to kill him."  
  
"I see. So you give the car to the accountant/practical joker of the X-Men? Are you sure that's a wise idea?" she lifted a brow, watched in amusement as Scott had a miniature cardiac arrest.  
  
"It'll be fine." He said, after a moment of thought. "If he brings it home without a scratch, everything's under control. And if he hurts it one tiny bit, I'll have an excuse to kill him. It's a win-win situation."  
  
"I suppose you could put it that way." Scott blinked, then murmured, "Oh, crap."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Suddenly I WANT a half-inch paint scratch just so I can get rid of Bobby."  
  
To her horror, Rebecca couldn't resist a giggle. "Maybe he'll melt a little bit in it, and that'll be excuse enough."  
  
"Let's hope."   
  
XXX  
  
Chris Warden sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the man still sleeping beside him. Casting a glance toward the window, then at his watch, he noted that it was still some hours from sunrise. Standing up, he searched for his jeans in the darkened room. Once he found them, he tugged them on, then set to finding his shirt.  
  
"You're leaving?" a mildly-accented voice came from the bed.  
  
"Oh, hey, Jean-Paul. No, no, I'm not." Warden scrubbed a hand over his face. "I was just going to grab a shower before. . .before you woke up." He motioned toward the bathroom.  
  
"I don't know about you, but I don't often take showers in my jeans."  
  
"Well. . .I. . .ah. . ." Warden refused to meet the Canadian's eyes, sighed. "Look. . ."  
  
"If you're not out yet, I can't blame you for wanting to leave. I assume everyone thinks you're sleeping with Soleil."  
  
"I don't know. Maybe." He shrugged. "It's nothing against you," he sat down on the bed, his smile just a pale slash in the dimness. "You were. . .amazing. The things you do with your mutation. . ." he laughed quietly, reached out to trace the lines of the older man's features as Jean-Paul sat up to claim a kiss, which started out softly enough, but grew in intensity till the Canadian found himself straddling Warden's lap and their tongues danced to the primitive, soul-stirring mating drum their hearts pounded out. When finally they pried themselves away from one another, Warden let out a long breath. "That's what I mean, just there. But. . .ah. . .I have a boyfriend."  
  
"I've heard of him. His name is Richard?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well," Jean-Paul had extricated himself from the passionate embrace he and Warden shared in a matter of moments. "It's not as though I were looking for a proposal or anything. This was just a night."  
  
"No," Warden stood up, put a hand softly on his back. "No, it wasn't." Jean-Paul turned, lifted a brow. "I have had fantasies about you. . .forever. I mean, not just in a physical way. You're the first openly gay superhero, and I don't even have the courage to tell my mercenary community. I'm still introducing my boyfriend as my old college buddy. It's. . .I really admire you, and I really think. . ." he sighed. "How to say this? I mean, this WAS just ONE night, but it wasn't JUST one night. You know what I mean?" Jean-Paul shrugged. "Not for me, anyhow. But you know how you build up an ideal in your mind? You know, for example, if I was going to sleep with. . .well, you. I built you up, and I thought maybe if I had you tonight, it would just go away, all the thoughts I've had about you, the dreams. . .but you surpassed every one of them."  
  
"Look, Chris. . ." Jean-Paul was by now facing the mercenary head-on. He lifted a hand and stroked his shaggy blond hair. "You're beautiful, you know? My beau ideal." He laughed quietly. Then he stepped back, and began to look for his own clothes. "So when are you going?"  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Well, I hear from Logan that you and Soleil are only staying until she meets with the Professor and keys your shielded psionic signature into Cerebro."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"And that's it, isn't it?"  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"I don't know. I mean. . .I'm not accustomed to my one-nighters telling me that I'm their sexual AND moral idol. It's unnerving, and a strange sort of oxymoron."  
  
"I guess. But hey, this doesn't need to be more complicated than it already is."  
  
"Would your boyfriend mind that you're cheating on him?"  
  
"With you? He'd ask for a ménage a trois." Warden wasn't prepared for the quick, ironic bark of laughter Jean-Paul let out. "What?"  
  
"Nothing. You should probably take your shower and get to your room before anyone gets up. I mean, people get up early in this mansion. . .it's insane."  
  
"You kickin' me out?" Warden lifted a brow.  
  
"I'd take you back to bed if you were out, already."  
  
"If we were dating, I'd ask you to take me out."   
  
"Well, I've never been good at long-distance relationships."  
  
"Are you even in one right now?"  
  
"Calique! You have me there. Can't say that I am." Jean-Paul shrugged, then leaned forward and touched his lips gently to Warden's. They shared a secret smile.  
  
"Well, I'd better go, then. See you around." Warden scooped his turtleneck off the floor.  
  
"Yeah, see you around."   
  
XXX   
  
Jonothon stumbled into the kitchen, headed straight for the refrigerator, and stole one of Wolverine's beers before he registered the thinly cloaked psi-signature in the room. 'Lo, Jubilee. he sat down at the table beside her.  
  
"If Wolvie asks where his beer went, I'm pointing to you."  
  
Fine, Jono uncapped the longneck, took a swig. Let's see if 'e 'as th' 'eart ter murder a poor innocent mutie in cold blood.  
  
And risk Rebecca's vengeance? I don't really think so.  
  
"W. . .well, there you g. . .g. . .go." Jonothon stammered audibly, beaming with pride when he only tripped on two words.   
  
"You're getting better at it," Jubilee grinned, touched his hand. "So?"  
  
"S. . .so wot?" he lifted a brow.  
  
"So what do you think of Warden?"  
  
"B. . .Becca says h. . .he's not sleeping w. . .w. . .with her."  
  
"That so?"   
  
"Yeh. S'wot she s. . .says."  
  
"Oh, well." Jubilee took the beer from him and sipped, cringed, and handed it back. "Never COULD stand the stuff."  
  
"Hrm." Jono's smile was wobbly yet, but crookedly charming, just like the rest of him.   
  
"So, how's your love-life yet? Now that you're a big-shot rock'n'roller?" the deputy leader of X-Cell leaned back and put her muddied combat boots up on the table.   
  
Wouldn't yer like ter know? Jono's eyes crinkled, and he wiggled his brows.  
  
"I think I have a right to know, as your commanding officer."  
  
Well, fine, I'm proud ter tell yer that I'm back ter me philanderin' ways. . .breakin' 'earts left'n right.  
  
"Well, don't crush too many adolescent girls' dreams." Jubilee smiled, and Jono couldn't help detecting the edge of bitterness in her words.  
  
"Look, J. . Jubilee, luv. . ."  
  
"Don't beat a dead horse, Jon." She shrugged. "I'm fine."  
  
"I'm n. . .not." his voice was thick with emotion.  
  
"We've licked our wounds, Starsmore." She said quietly. "It was only six months."  
  
"A. . .and we knew each other f. . .fer years before 'at."  
  
"It's still dead."  
  
"D'yer w. . .want it ter be dead, luv?"  
  
"Starsmore, don't." her voice hardened, became cold and distant, the way it was when they were on the battlefield and she was giving orders as his commanding officer.  
  
Summers does 'at, too, luv. That thing wif 'is voice. Helps distance yerself from us, don't it? Emotionally? Won't take shit from us underlings, 'at wot it is? Can't make yerself feel like yer one'v us? Maybe it's a leader thing, an' maybe yer need it out there, but not in 'ere, Jubilee. Not while we're both airing ourselves out. he stopped abruptly, then continued, "Not while I'm talkin' about me feelings fer yeh." He didn't stammer once.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it. It's in the past."  
  
Gorra lotta philosophy offa yer friend, Wolverine, didn't yer? Avoidin' th' subject, dancin' round wot yer don't want ter talk about? Pretty soon, ye'll be saddlin' up onna motorbike an' drivin' off inter th' sunset, leavin' us all high'n'dry. before the words had fully left his mind, a fist like rock slammed into his newly-formed jaw, bowling him over, chair and all.  
  
"Don't you EVER talk about Wolvie like that." Jubilee hissed, semi-animate plasmoids sparkling off her fingertips. "And don't you EVER even INSINUATE that I'd do that to my team." She turned and was about to leave when a tendril of psionic flame hissed out from Jonothon's eyes and formed a constricting rope around one of her wrists, tugging her back. She turned, eyes blazing. Jonothon was still on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him, his head in his hands.   
  
"D. . .don't leave, Sunshine." He said quietly. "I'm s. . .sorry."   
  
"You will be if you don't let me go this instant." Her eyes narrowed.  
  
"Please j. . .j. . .just 'ear me out?" he stared up at her, his big, brown eyes full and liquid in the harsh neon light.   
  
"You'd better spit it out fast, Starsmore."  
  
I just wanna know why yer keep distancin' yerself from me.  
  
"What are you TALKING about?!"  
  
Well, when we're jus' 'angin' out, yer seem ter slip inter this great little banter wif me, an' I think that maybe, jus' maybe, if I can trust yer wif me life in th' Danger Room, maybe I can trust you wif me feelings. An' then when I start to, yer shoot me down before I get two words out.  
  
"I just don't want to make another mistake like. . .you know. . ." she shrugged. "It's not that I don't love you anymore."  
  
Then if yer love me, an' I love yer, too, 'ow come we aren't together? It doesn't make any sense. Are yer scared I'll break yer 'eart? YOU were th' one wot broke up wif me, as I recall.  
  
"I'm not scared. I just don't want. . ." she sighed, and slipped down onto the floor to sit beside him. "I don't want us to become another Gambit and Rogue. I mean. . .he's just split with Sarah, and Rogue's already trying to get him back! And as much as he wants to go back to her, he knows she'll just turn around and break his heart again. It's just that. . .you know, I don't know what to think."  
  
Cyclops an' Phoenix went f'r it. They're married now. They've children, wif more on th' way. They're 'appy.  
  
"Yes, they are. But there are still unresolved issues between them."  
  
An' they're in love. I'm in love. Are yer tellin' me that I'm in it alone? when she didn't say anything, he continued. Yer've always told me that wot Logan's told yer about life was ter live it ter th' full. "No one takes a bite outta life like yer do, girl." Ain't 'at wot 'e's always told yer? Th' night Illyana Rasputin died? Would yer just. . .gimme another chance?  
  
She shook her head softly. "I don't know, Jono. I don't know if I love you enough to take that chance of breaking my own heart again. I guess. . .I don't know."  
  
Well, if it makes any difference, if it don't work this time round, I promise yer, I'll take all th' blame. But I want this ter work. Six months wasn't enough fer me.  
  
"But how much IS?" she sighed. "I don't know when you're gonna just up and head after the next pretty blonde girl you decide is hot stuff. I don't want to be dropped like a hot potato."  
  
Jus' cos I did it ter Paige don't mean I'll do it ter yer. An' b'sides. . .I don't think I was as in love wif Paige as I am wif you.  
  
"I'll think about it, Jon." She said quietly. "I will, I want you back, I do. I'll be honest, since we broke up five months ago, I haven't been able to think of anyone else, no matter whose bed I was in."  
  
I won't break yer 'eart, I promise. An' if yer get tired o' me, just walk.  
  
"Let me think about it, Jon." She said quietly. "I'm too tired to talk about us." She rolled her eyes when he began to pout. "You're incorrigible."   
  
Thank yer, luv, I think very 'ighly o' yer, too. she swatted him over the head.   
  
"I'm going to sleep, Starsmore." She mumbled, leaning over and pecking him softly on the cheek.   
  
"I l. . .love yer, Sunshine." He said slowly.  
  
"I love you, too." She rose and crept out of the kitchen. After what seemed like hours of empty silence, Jono got to his feet and finished his now-warm beer.  
  
XXX 


	20. Even Aliens Make Mistakes

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twenty: Even Aliens Make Mistakes  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
A/N: I'm sorry if Chapter Nineteen was a little confusing, but I'll give a basic recap of it here, in case you didn't understand. Rebecca and Scott's conversation was mainly small-talk and bonding, and she put telekinetic shields over his eyes so he no longer needed the glasses.  
  
Warden and Jean-Paul hooked up at Harry's and had a one-nighter. Warden has always had feelings for Jean-Paul, rather as he might idolize a film star. Jean-Paul is simply lonely. Their relationship is inconclusive, as Warden is already in a relationship with a man named Richard.  
  
Jubilee and Jono were in a romantic relationship for a six month period about five months before the story starts, and Jono is just realizing he can't let her go, and wants to start things up again, while she isn't so sure about it, even though she still loves him.  
  
There. . .I hope that does it, and if you have anymore questions, just e- mail me.  
  
XXX  
  
Jean sighed and pressed her nose against the window of the Shi'ar Spacecraft. It's good to be home, she thought fleetingly, as she watched the ground come up beneath them. The landing was fairly gentle, compared to when they had entered the atmosphere, due to the safety of the practically foolproof alien vessel, but what would happen when she saw her husband again for the first time in three months? She closed her eyes momentarily, and sighed quietly.   
  
"Jean?" the Professor strode up behind her, his footsteps deadened by the thick felt soles of his boots. "Is there something wrong?" she turned, and winced, as she always did, at the sight of the scar that ran behind his skull from ear to ear.   
  
"No, Professor. It's nothing."  
  
"I may no longer be telepathic, but I know you too well to believe that dismissive, melancholy tone of yours." She blushed furiously as he came to stand beside her and slid a paternal arm around her shoulders. "What are you worried about?"  
  
"When Scott finds out about Quinn."  
  
The snort of surprise from Xavier startled Jean. "Well, that's hardly something a marriage like yours and Scott's won't stand up to."  
  
"Don't be sarcastic." She rolled her eyes, nearly batted at him before she remembered herself. The spacecraft lurched to a stop, and her stomach rolled over. "Where is she, anyhow?"  
  
"In her incubator. She was being fussy."  
  
"So you took the easy way out."  
  
"Now what else did you expect me to do?" his innocuous smile turned radiant when Lilandra entered the room.   
  
"The luggage will be taken to your rooms by my personal attaché of servants. Are you ready to go?"  
  
"Yes, we are."  
  
"As soon as I get Quinn."  
  
"Of course," the Majestrix of the Shi'ar Empire smiled beatifically. "Scott will be very pleased to meet his daughter."  
  
"And perhaps not so pleased when he finds that I named her without telling him." Jean smiled wryly.  
  
"Is THAT what you're worrying about?" Xavier laughed. "I thought it was that she is such an ornery child."  
  
Jean smiled. "Thanks for trying to help me feel better, Professor." She turned and headed for the makeshift nursery Lilandra had so benevolently provided on their return to Earth. Quinndaera Summers' incubator was at the centre of the room, as most Shi'ar beds were. Jean leant down and pulled back with her sleeping daughter in her arms. The girl's eyes were closed, but Jean knew that they were the wide, wondering slate blue of newborns. The child's pale gold hair, sparse as it was, lay against her temples, glued there by fragrant baby sweat. Jean rested Quinn against her shoulder and headed for the docking bay, where the Professor, Lilandra, and one or two of the Imperial Bodyguard stood behind them casually, yet prepared to protect should the need arise.   
  
The first person Jean saw as she bundled into the subterranean X-Men hangar was Hank McCoy. She broke into a smile as his eyes went wide at the sight of Quinn. Close behind him was Scott, who seemed to be in a somewhat irritated conversation with Jubilee, who kept tugging on his shirt. Their gazes met over Quinndaera, and his jaw dropped as he rushed toward her. Before he said a word, his lips were on hers, squelching any fears she might have had. "What did you call her?" he asked quietly, voice tremulous with emotion.  
  
"Quinndaera Merritt Summers."  
  
"Fifth child who deserves fortune," he murmured, his linguistic skills quickly decrypting his daughter's name. His face creased into a smile. "I have a little surprise of my own for you." He touched her face gently, and turned toward a statuesque blonde woman some paces behind him and nodded. Scott reached up for his visor and Jean started, but within moments he had yanked it off, before the Phoenix could even throw up a psi-shield, and she was looking up into his burning red eyes, unhampered by the heavy ruby-quartz eyewear he was required to sport every hour of every day.   
  
"Scott. . ." she breathed, nearly speechless, and pulled him back in for another kiss, then pushed him back a little. "Why don't you hold her?" she held Quinn out, and Scott took the delicate bundle into his arms.   
  
Quinn was a deep sleeper, and as the exchange was made, she merely turned and attempted to put one mittened hand into her mouth. "She's so beautiful." He fingered her platinum curls. "She's a blondie."  
  
"The Shi'ar physicians tell me her hair will darken as she grows. It'll be something like your colour. And her eyes will be blue." She smiled gently. "You look so much alike." She turned as the Professor laid a hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Shall we retire to the kitchen?" she smiled meekly at her tutor, and Scott slipped his arm around her shoulders.  
  
"Yes, let's." he said quickly. The moment the X-Men were assembled in the kitchen, all hell broke loose. People swamped round the refrigerator, calling dibs on various desserts or leftovers and squabbling for seats nearest to the newcomers. As for the Professor, he slipped quietly out to his office. He was so preoccupied that he didn't hear the soft footsteps following him.  
  
Xavier sighed as he sank into the wing-backed Victorian chair behind his expansive oak desk. "Would you rather be alone with your thoughts?" the low feminine voice startled him enough that he started. "I'm sorry. I should have let you know I was following you."  
  
"Soleil Étoile." He shook his head and stood up, enveloping her in a warm hug. "You look lovely. I apologize that I wasn't able to greet you personally when I arrived."  
  
"Shut up, Charles." She shrugged. "It's been a while."  
  
"Eight months?"  
  
"More like ten."  
  
"Really?" he smiled, feigning surprise. "We've both gone through considerable changes."  
  
"Jubilee told me." She touched the scar on his skull tenderly. He laughed.  
  
"I can't feel it. The incision, I mean. " he chuckled.  
  
"Don't laugh, Charles." Her brow knit. "I can't even begin to imagine how terrible it must be."  
  
"Not so bad," he covered her hand in his, and brought it to his lips. "Being bereft of comfort and that sixth sense we've gone through life depending on and reveling in and despising isn't quite as terrible as I imagined it."  
  
"But?" she brought her other hand up to his shoulder into a ballroom pose.  
  
"But I'm no longer useful to the X-Men. I'm here for moral support."  
  
"That's ridiculous. You're a brilliant strategist and politician. The X-Men NEED you. You're their leader. You've not been in action for years. Your telepathy isn't what was useful to your team, to your FAMILY. It was YOU. If you're going to go through a poor-me routine, trust me, I WON'T be amused."  
  
"Then nothing will convince you to stay with us-with me?"  
  
"I thought they planted a neural inhibitor in your brain." She turned her face up to his, her smile widening.   
  
"Well, I suppose my innate perceptivity hasn't dimmed a shade." He shrugged, and she laid her head gently between his shoulder and neck. "I'm sorry you won't give this offer more thought."  
  
"I've given it lots of thought, Charles, but no amount of anguishing will change the fact that I have a partner. A non-mutant, non-pacifistic partner."   
  
"Christopher Warden."  
  
"Yeah. Him."  
  
"Are you two in a relationship?"  
  
"Yeah, a professional one." She grinned. "Warden and I aren't attracted to one another that way. It's better." There was a tangible, deafening silence.  
  
"I'm glad you were here when I arrived." Xavier finally said. He felt her smile into his shoulder, and murmured, "Shall we have some music?"  
  
"I'll do it." She telekinetically turned on the record player and selected a 13" disc. As she nestled the needle into place, the gentle hum of Mozart's Concerto for the French Horn wafted over them, its aggrandized notes settling an odd peace into place. Rebecca inhaled deeply, identifying his scent and picking apart the reasons it comforted her so. There was always that faint hint of aftershave, which humanized the near-saint he was, and peppermint oil, then the earthy tones of newsprint that always clung to him, overlaid with strong, soothing male. Charles Xavier wasn't the paragon on masculinity to look at, but there was that power in his voice, in his hands, in his eyes, in his scent that permeated your being and made one feel secure. "Charles?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I want to help."  
  
"You are a help. You've given us numerous decisive information bulletins over the past years."  
  
"I mean with you. Just because there's the possibility that Onslaught might re-manifest doesn't mean you should hide your candle under a bushel, so to speak. I'm powerful enough to help you, perhaps more than powerful enough! This shouldn't be the end of your telepathy. This is simply a bend in the road."  
  
"I can't chance it, Rebecca."  
  
"You HAVE to." Her eyes, deep and blue and earnest, pierced up into his, and he stared back, just as gravely. "I hate that I feel so helpless. You're too damned stubborn."  
  
"Be that as it may, Rebecca."  
  
"Natty could help."  
  
"Sinister?" Xavier actually laughed in her face. "Ridiculous!"  
  
"I'm serious. Under my supervision, and with your permission, I'm sure he could come up with something to help you."  
  
"This isn't a sickness to cure, Rebecca. I'm getting old, and losing control of my powers. I'm not overly modest or deceived, and if I lost control, I'd probably wipe out half the country. . .or worse, target the people I love the most."  
  
"You're afraid of harming the X-Men again. Your powers are prodigious, but Jean's have grown, as well."  
  
"If you stayed with us, I might consider. . .but no. I couldn't ask you to do that. Not after what Victor and Monet put you through, and you have Warden to consider."  
  
"I could talk with him. If my remaining with the X-Men might persuade you to work on regulating your powers, as opposed to giving them up entirely, I'm certain he'd understand. We could board at the mansion, or perhaps rent an acre or two to build on, and go from there. I could regulate your psionisis easily, at the same time maintaining my position in the mercenary community. Warden would adore living here; it's a school, and he loves to learn!"  
  
"Rebecca," Xavier took a backward step and held the woman at arm's length. "A plan like this is something to reflect on, to deliberate over, not to spring upon by accident some evening listening to. . .to Mozart!"  
  
"Tell me you deliberated over the decision to inhibit your powers, and I'll take the same measures."  
  
"It was considered at length by a board of the Shi'ar Empire's most astute physicians. They weighed my age, my physical condition, my race, and the comparison of all these to the power I was so quickly losing control of, and I was found lacking."  
  
"Your power conspires not against you. It is a part of you-inborn, destined! You can't lose it. Not now, not ever; the minute to begin to believe you don't need your telepathy is the minute you tear yourself in two and leave one-half of your soul floating aimlessly on the astral plane, and the other stranded helplessly with both feet planted firmly in reality. I don't know which half is the more unfortunate." Her voice rose with her temper, and a shiver went down Xavier's spine-the same shiver he'd experienced the moment the Phoenix sacrificed herself.  
  
"Perhaps you're right."  
  
"I AM right and you know it!" she fairly hissed, sitting stiffly on a footstool. "I only want what's right for you, and I feel that this neural inhibitor isn't going to facilitate your condition, it'll only inflame it. It's like cauterizing a wound. Perhaps it closes it and delays the loss of blood, but the wound festers for years beneath the seared skin, and never properly heals."  
  
"I see what you mean. I'll speak with Henry and Lilandra about it." He scratched his chin, looked hesitantly back up at her. "Are you happy now?"  
  
"The world's most powerful telepath acceding defeat to a lab-project gone wrong? How can I fail to be delighted?" she pulled him back into a waltzing position and took a turn round the office. "It's lovely to have you home."   
  
There was a long silence following her statement, and the concerto finally wound down. "They said you had something to discuss with me. . ." Xavier said suddenly, as though grasping at straws with which to build conversation. "Something about your powers?"  
  
"Oh, that. No, it's all better now. Natty fixed it for me."  
  
"Fixed it?"  
  
"Yes. I promise, it's fine." She grinned perkily. "Come on, now, let's go back to the crowd. Your students will think I've ravished you." Xavier laughed.  
  
"So you have, my dear." He leant in and kissed her forehead gently. "So you have."  
  
XXX 


	21. Dinner and an Argument

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twenty-One: Dinner and an Argument  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
#-indicates thought  
  
^-indicates telepathic conversation  
  
XXX  
  
"Hey, Warden," Rebecca sat down on the couch beside her partner, flicked a glance at the game controller he was struggling with. "Put that down, I need to talk with you."  
  
"Becky, this is an X-Box v.4.2! Do you have ANY idea how awesome this is? God, I would've loved to have this as a kid."  
  
"You ARE a kid." She knocked the controller out of his hands. "A big, whiny kid who just murdered one of the most skillful and well-linked mercenaries in the western world." Warden sat up and started.  
  
"Beck-EE!" he pouted. "OhmyGOD, I was just about to kill Jin Mishima and Paul Phoenix's double-team! Do you have ANY idea what you've just done?" he rammed his fingers through his shaggy blond hair in frustration.   
  
"You'll get back to it. What is this, Tekken part eighty-six trillion?"  
  
"It's Tekken Twelve, if you must know." He continued to pout. "And the graphics are SOOO kick-ass! Becky, how could you?"  
  
"I need to talk seriously with you, Chris." She brushed her hair back, and took her hands in his.  
  
"What, are you breaking up with me?"  
  
"Don't joke."  
  
"You ARE breaking up with me!" he turned pale. "Whoa, I thought you told me you told Cyclops that you weren't going to join the X-Men again!"  
  
"I'm not rejoining the X-Men, because to start with, I've never really BEEN a part of them. All I'm saying is that I think we should operate from here for a while."  
  
"But your apartment in the city! It's so perfect! And everyone knows that we were there, and we might put the school in danger because we're mercs."  
  
"Calm down, Chris." She shook her head. "I had a good conversation with Xavier last night, and there are just some things that are going to go on here that you know. . .might need me."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Now I want you to listen up carefully, because if you get all emotional and angry, then I'm never going to really get through to you. First of all, you have to know that splitting this team up is not an option. I am NOT going to leave you. I'll deep-forty-six everything else in my life before going back on a business deal, understood?"  
  
"Yeah." He avoided her eyes, snatching the controller back and scrolling to the main menu of the video game.  
  
"I'm sure you saw the scar on the back of Xavier's head last night."  
  
"I heard he had a neural inhibitor implanted in his brain to stop his telepathy."  
  
"Good, you're already up on the basics. Well, the inhibitor hasn't really taken root yet. You know what that means, I'm sure, we've lived together long enough for you to get my psionisis lingo." Warden grunted by way of reply. "I think I can help him get his control back to normal again. I have to try. If I don't, I'll have to live with it, and so will Xavier."  
  
"So we'll take up shop here, then?"  
  
"Yeah. It makes sense, Chris. We'll have access to the X-Men's state-of-the-art equipment, including the latest weapons from the Maker, two Blackbird airplanes fully equipped, and one of the most solid security systems in the cosmos. Besides, once all the villains realize Xavier's no longer a powerful telepath, they'll come after the X-Men and X-Cell."  
  
"And your brother." Warden muttered.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"Huh. I guess you're right, then. There's no reason not to, I mean. . .once we move our equipment in from the city, we'll have the same cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses. People can contact us easily. And it's not like the Merc Hubs are going anywhere."  
  
"So you're all right with it?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Even if we're going to be an hour and a half away from Richard?"  
  
Warden shrugged. "Yeah, it's fine. If our relationship can't stand up to something as simple as this, we shouldn't be together."  
  
"I don't want you to feel obligated to do this simply because it's what I feel is right or necessary. If you're opposed to it, there's nothing that could constrain me to break up this team."  
  
"We could live apart." Warden shrugged. "You know, if I get bored of being surrounded by a bunch of straight superheroes."  
  
Rebecca chuckled, then turned serious. "Some of Clyde's allies might come after you."  
  
"I doubt it. He wasn't too well-liked."  
  
"But he was an integral part of several crime families."  
  
"Touché. I guess it's settled then. When should we close up the apartment?"  
  
"Well, we own, so I guess we should just move our equipment out. That should make sense."  
  
"All right. Have you. . .arranged things with the school?"  
  
"I told Xavier I'd talk with you about hanging around. He says he'd think seriously about removing the inhibitor and only using a Genoshan bracelet for a few hours a day, and while he's sleeping. During the day, I could train with him."  
  
"Can't Phoenix do this? I mean, why you? I thought she was like. . .so much more powerful."  
  
"He might not admit it, but Xavier has a serious ego. Jean was one of his students, and it'd hurt his pride to be led along by the wrist by someone he's been training since she was eleven years old."  
  
"Huh. I guess I never thought about it that way." Warden reflected, tapping a few buttons on the X-Box control and bringing his game back up. "All right, so I guess it's settled. You'll work it out with the bigwigs here?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll take care of everything. I'll even have the apartment cleared out. You won't have to lift a finger."  
  
"Hey, just because I got kidnapped and was forced to take a hit that'll most probably come back to bite me in the ass doesn't mean I need a permanent vacation."  
  
"Yes, it does. I want you to shut up and keep playing video games. . .both here and in the Danger Room, which I'm assuming you've checked out."  
  
"No, what's that?" he sat up and leant on the back of the couch.  
  
"I'll have someone introduce you to it." She called back, chuckling as she walked away.  
  
XXX  
  
Scott sat on the dock of Breakstone Lake, his feet dangling into the cool water. A cane fishing pole was propped up in a Y-shaped stick cradle, and there was a bucket full of moist earth and fat worms sitting beside him. His wife was cooking in their beautiful lakeside house only a few yards away, their newly born daughter snoozing in her bassinet. His son was due to come down for dinner that evening. They scarcely saw one another any more, between their respective duties to the X-Men and the classes they both taught.   
  
He hadn't fished like this in a long time, and it wasn't as though he expected to catch anything more than perhaps a few wide-mouth bass three or four inches long. But the atmosphere was relaxing. He could see fireflies performing their drunken dances, turning their lights on and off like unsure old men. The hum of crickets sounded gently in his ears, and he sighed deeply.   
  
^Scott,^ the telepathic voice reached him just as he heard the rustle in the grass behind him.  
  
"Soleil. Hey. Nice evening, isn't it?"  
  
"It really is." She curled up beside him on the dock, and reached her hand into his bucket, withdrawing it with a plump worm cradled in her palm and dirt beneath her pink, manicured nails. "So what're you setting your sights on out here? Lake trout?"  
  
"Nah. Just relaxing. What're you doing out here? Isn't it dinner time in the Mansion?" she shrugged. "Have you made all the arrangements with Warden's psi-sig yet?"  
  
"Actually, I finished with that this morning. I had a conversation with the Professor, and we decided it'd be best if Warden and I stayed here for a while. I mean, all hell's apt to break loose so soon as people realize that the Professor's no longer telepathic."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And because. . .well, he said he'd consider rebuilding his psionic restraint if I were to stick around for a while."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Yeah, I think I talked him out of the whole brain-implant thing."  
  
"You're insane."  
  
"Scott." She rolled her eyes. "Look, it's a good thing. I'll have the protection I may or may not need in the wake of Clyde's murder, and you'll get the Professor back. Won't it be lovely?" she crooned, more to the worm than to him.  
  
"No, I don't think that's a good idea at all."  
  
"Why not?" she knit her brow, stared into the mirrored glasses he wore.  
  
"Because." He sighed. "Where do I start? For one, you and Monet won't get along at all."  
  
"That's not true. We've agreed that Victor's HER territory, and that I don't want anything to do with him romantically."  
  
"Well, then, you'll disrupt Chamber's concentration on rebuilding himself."  
  
"That's pure bullshit and you know it. What, you scrambling for excuses to get rid of me now? Don't worry, I promise I won't join the X-Men. Warden and I will work out of the Mansion, but we won't be affiliated with you in any way. No trouble, I've already worked everything out. Oh, some men will be around tomorrow with a few trucks of electronic gadgets and some plastic explosives. Is there somewhere in your basement I can chuck them?"  
  
"No! Look, you can't set up a mercenary operation at Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning. We'll have the Feds or the Department of Social Security crawling up our asses. The kids' parents know that we're the X-Men and X-Cell, they have for nearly twenty years now, but housing a mercenary operation is an entirely different story!"  
  
"No, it's not. Because they won't have to know about it."  
  
"We're required by law to inform them of any new developments. We can't have. . .plastic explosives on the grounds!"  
  
"The Blackbirds are each loaded with two nuclear warheads, a machine gun, and pounds of C4 apiece! Don't throw that 'required by law' crap into my face because it'll just make you a hypocrite. If the parents can live with their kids being tutored by a vigilante group, they'll be able to stomach a couple of killers-for-hire on vacation, I promise you that!"  
  
"You really think you have the right to do this, don't you?" he drew himself up to his full height, upsetting the bait-bucket with his boot. "I thought we had an understanding, Rebecca! In fact, we did. You were going to cue your doll-faced, ailing partner-in-crime's psi-signature into Cerebro in case he gets kidnapped again by an old boyfriend of yours or was he Rachel's?" Rebecca's jaw dropped, and she covered her face in her hands. Her shoulders began to shake, and for a moment, Scott became terrified that she was crying. "All right, now that's just not fair play." She looked up, and her face-splitting grin simply infuriated him the more.  
  
"Is THAT what this is about? You're angry with me, and don't want me to hang around for a couple more months because Guillaume and I were an item after Rach got blasted into the time stream?"  
  
"No! I wasn't even thinking about that!" he reddened.  
  
"Whatever. Well, just in case you're wondering, Guillaume and I ended a looong time ago, if we ever really WERE together."  
  
"Just like you and Creed."  
  
"Look, Creed and I were married." She turned around, eyes blazing. "That doesn't constitute a relationship. I was legally tied to him because of his and Natty's misplaced sense of honour. They both thought they had to protect me from whatever the hell goes bump in the night! And why would you throw him in my face now? For the sake of a tragedy-wound? I didn't think you were that petty!" Scott muttered something incoherent and stared at his boots. "Speak up!" he shrugged, remained silent. "I think you owe it to me to tell me what you just said.  
  
"I don't want you around!" he replied, his face coming up. She could feel his eyes latching onto hers even through his glasses.  
  
"And why exactly is that?"  
  
"Because. Everyone needs you. Everyone LOVES you. When you come around, you're the person everyone's excited about, and I don't need excitement in my life right now. I have Jean, and I don't want you!" he reached down, and grabbed his worms and his fishing pole, prepared to stomp into his house and, God damn it, enjoy his meal with his wife and son!-but Rebecca grabbed him by the arm before he could get too far.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, wait. You are NOT going to say something like THAT and leave me hanging. What's that supposed to mean, that you don't want me in your house, polluting your teams? That you dislike me that much? Or what?"  
  
He pursed his lips. "I don't know."  
  
"Come on. You've faced down countless villains. You should be able to fess up to me."  
  
"Yeah, I should." He mumbled. "I'm just afraid. . ." he turned away, and left her standing at the docks, finishing the sentence in his mind, #That I might have feelings for you.#  
  
XXX 


	22. Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twenty-Two: Breaking Up is Hard to Do  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
#-indicates thought  
  
^-indicates telepathic conversation  
  
XXX  
  
Two men sat across from one another at a quiet sidewalk café not a half-hour from downtown Manhattan. One was young and beautiful and all-American, with blond hair and light blue eyes, sculpted features, and a slim, agile build. The other looked perhaps nearer forty, with close-cropped, shaggy hair that looked as though it had been brown once upon a time in his life, but had been bleached nearly white by the sun. His features were craggy, ruggedly handsome, with shy sun-wrinkles. He was shorter, and built like a WWF wrestler. Both had cups of black coffee, and a plate of muffins and scones sat at the centre of the small round table. "So you're staying in Westchester?" the older man inquired.  
  
"Look, Richard, it's not like I'm further away than usual. It's a safety precaution. I told you what happened last week, and honestly, as much of a rush as it was, I wouldn't really like to repeat the experience." Warden shrugged.   
  
"I just wanna get something straight," Richard muttered, the edges of his words sharp and pronounced. "Do you or don't you want me?"  
  
"Of course I. . ."  
  
"What I mean is, do you want this relationship to work? You've gotta look at things from MY perspective, Chris. I. . .I love you, and I don't want to lose you, but your work seems to be getting in our way. At the rate you're going, you're going to be in hiding for the rest of your life! I don't want to have to hide out from some Crimelord! Granted, I don't mind your being a merc. I understand that. I was Intel once, you know? But still. . .I wish you'd just put us first every once in a while."  
  
"I DO put us first. Richard, I don't want this relationship to end any more than you do. I want us to be together for years and years and years. I don't intend to die any time soon. I'm safe with Becky and the X-Men."  
  
"I'm sure you are, but it's not that. Before this Clyde thing went down, I was gonna move in with you and Rebecca. Where did that go? Are you just gonna put it on the back burner because now she wants you to be in some institutionalized atmosphere where she can chant mantras at some old bald guy?"  
  
"It's not like that, Richard. This is for the best. For everyone. For mankind."  
  
"Yeah, I've heard all that Xavier crap. I just can't believe you're getting sucked into it, as well." Richard rolled his eyes, selected a raisin scone and smeared cream cheese onto it. "This is ridiculous. You'll make sacrifices for your partner, but not for your boyfriend. Maybe you're in more of a relationship with Rebecca than you are with me."  
  
"How could you say something like that, Richard? How COULD you? I love you! You know that, and I don't want to be with anyone else! This is just a temporary thing. If you don't have the patience to wait this out, then maybe you don't have the patience to be with me!"  
  
"Maybe I don't, Chris," the other man replied harshly, "You know, I'm not gettin' any younger here! The first step toward a committed relationship is a move-in, and obviously I'm not welcome at this Xavier facility! You know what, if you're gonna make it this difficult, I might as well start all over again."  
  
"What're you talking about?" Warden demanded.  
  
"I'm talking about splitting up, Chris."  
  
"You've gotta be kidding!"  
  
"I'm not. I'm dead fucking serious."  
  
"B. . .but I TOLD you," the younger man's voice cracked slightly, his blue eyes widening in terror. "I told you this was only going to be TEMPORARY. Maybe a few months, just until this situation blows over. Wouldn't you rather take a few minutes more travel time than have a dead boyfriend?"  
  
"I don't HAVE a boyfriend anymore, damn it!" Richard slammed his fist on the table, upsetting their drinks. "We've grown so far apart, I feel like I don't even know you anymore. You've changed on me. I'm not gonna stand for that, we should just. . .just put an end to it."  
  
"But Rick, babe. . ."  
  
"No, I'm not listening to your bull anymore, Chris. I'm outta here." He tossed a bill on the table, grabbed his coat, and left. Warden sat alone for a few minutes, his features registering complete shock. After a while, he paid for the coffee and muffins, got into his car, and drove back toward the mansion.  
  
As he drove up to the gates and entered the security code, he took three deep breaths. He parked his car neatly in the giant garage, and walked into the kitchen through a side-door. The members of X-Cell were preparing dinner. He greeted them politely, inquired what they were making, and headed for the elevator. He walked into his room, changed out of his slacks and turtleneck, and tugged on frayed jeans and a t-shirt. He strolled down the hall to Rebecca's room, which was empty, curled up on her bed, and closed his eyes.  
  
XXX  
  
Soleil and Xavier sat facing one another on the tatami mat floor, both in the lotus position, their eyes serenely closed, but darting to and fro as though in REM sleep. Between them lay a small silver bracelet with three buttons and a keyhole on its outer side. It was unclasped, and the key sat beside it. Neither of them seemed coherent, but the moment anyone came within five feet of their meditative pose, Soleil immediately sent them a sharp telepathic warning that they might observe, but from further away.  
  
And observe some did. Since Soleil and the Professor had first begun training, Jubilee had dutifully sat and watched carefully, monitoring both of their brainwave patterns. Rebecca had requested that she break their connection should either of them be in any danger. Within a few days, X-Man and Chamber had joined her. And it was not only the resident telepaths who were interested in the Professor's sudden decision to regain full control over his slipping powers. Scott, Beast, even Skin hovered round the display at times to monitor what they could.   
  
Things had changed greatly since Xavier and Jean had been home. For one, there was the addition of baby Quinn, who took up much of both Scott and Jean's time with her almost incessant crying. For a while, they had been worried about her, but after Beast performed a few tests, he found that her eyes were simply weak, and prescribed some drops for them.   
  
Sinister had also become a common sight around the Xavier Mansion, especially in the MedLab. He and Hank would tinker and babble in their geneticist's jargon and push one another round the small clinic. No one had really bothered much with him, but he was always scrupulously polite, and both Leech and Artie had become somewhat attached to him. He'd helped Xavier break the news to Lilandra about his decision to remove the inhibitor. Though Lilandra had been shocked when he'd informed her of this, she'd said nothing to indicate that she was displeased. She'd suggested that the Shi'ar physician who'd implanted the device be the one to remove it, but Xavier insisted that Rebecca be present during the operation. Now he wore a Genoshan bracelet almost constantly, removing it only during the four to six hours a day, when he trained with Rebecca.  
  
He had strengthened enough for the third psi-presence to be done away with, and their training sessions had shortened, but had become far more intense, with Rebecca raising psionic villains in her own mindscape and having him demolish them without injuring her in the least. Things were going as well as they possibly could, with none of the predicted villain attacks. Prominent families were paying legendary sums of money to get their mutant and non-mutant children into all three schools, and it seemed as though a mutant protection bill would soon pass in the Senate.   
  
Rebecca soothed Xavier's thoughts, much like a fitness instructor would have decreased the intensity of his programme for the cool-down. They'd trained for five and a half hours straight, and both were exhausted at the strenuous psionic exercise. After a few minutes of telepathic cool down, Soleil withdrew from the Professor's mind. They opened their eyes, and Xavier snapped the Genoshan bracelet on, while Rebecca took the key and hung it around her neck. They stretched their limbs and stood up, then moved wordlessly away from one another.   
  
Rebecca took immediately to her bedroom to shower, and found Warden curled up on her bed. She was about to demand what the hell he thought he was doing, when she noticed wet splotches on her pillow. Moving toward him, she sat at the edge of the bed and patted his shoulder. "I'm awake, Becky." He muttered.  
  
"What's wrong? Didn't you see Richard today?"  
  
"Yeah. I got back about an hour and a half ago."  
  
"What're you doing in here? What happened?"  
  
"He left me, Becky," Warden pulled himself into a sitting position, leaned heavily against the pillows, covering his face in his hands. "Damn it. I'm not even sure why."  
  
"Oh, my God." She pulled him into a hug, and he buried his face in her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Chris. I. . .damn, I'm going to hunt him down and murder that little bugger."  
  
"Don't. Please just leave it alone." He sniffled, pulled back, and wiped his nose against his sleeve. "I just wanna be depressed."  
  
"I've got a half-bottle of rum in my cupboard. One moment," she rose and retrieved the bottle, took a swig, and handed it to him. He gulped and guzzled like a drowning man. "Hold your horses. I'm not letting you drink yourself senseless. Wait, I want to hear about it so I can help."  
  
Warden sighed and set the bottle on the end table, a mild buzz already settling in his brain. "I love him, Becky."  
  
"I know, Chris. Just tell me what he said."  
  
"Don't go after him. Don't."  
  
"I promise, I'll stay right here with you."  
  
"He jussst said that he thought I should like. . .move back to the city. He wanted to move in, you know? And then I just pulled the rug out from under him."  
  
"And?"  
  
"He said his biological clock was ticking and that he wanted us to be serious. I told him I wanted that too, an' that this was just temporary. An' he left."  
  
"That's ridiculous! I knew he was a selfish sonovabitch, but I didn't expect something like that. Who the fucking hell does he think he is, messing with us like this?"  
  
"Messhin' with mee, Beck. ME, not us. He said I should. . .leave you." She blinked. "I'm not GOING to! Of course, Becca. That's just stupid." He gulped again from the bottle. "I just wanna be with him. Cause I love him." He drew a breath; let it out as a convulsive sob. "Damn it. Asshole, bastard, motherfucking sonovabitch, I HATE it when life screws me over like this!" He collapsed back into her shoulder, and she felt tears soaking through her shirt. She tightened her arms around him, stroked his hair gently.  
  
"Chris, babe, it'll be fine. I'm here, darling. Don't worry about a damn thing." She sighed, and rubbed his back consolingly. "Don't worry. Everything will turn out well." They stayed there for some time, while he wept and she comforted. Finally, he sighed and lay back on the bed. He turned to his side, and she settled in as well, facing him. "I'll take care of you." She murmured, and dropped a kiss on his forehead.  
  
"Thank God." He sighed. "You know, I'd probably be a blathering lunatic right now if I didn't have you to come back to."  
  
"Don't be sarcastic, I'm really worried about you, and I'll take good care of you." She knit her brow, smoothing his hair out of his eyes.  
  
"I'm not being sarcastic. I love ya, Becky."  
  
"Good, because I do believe you're beginning to grow on me." She grinned, then sat up. "I've got to take a shower. Do you want to go out for dinner, or shall we eat in?"  
  
"Let's go out. I don't wanna be surrounded by strangers while I'm in mourning."  
  
"All right, then. Get dressed nicely and get back in here. I'll need help with my clothes and hair." She ordered. Warden grinned sloppily, and kissed her gently on the cheek.   
  
"Love ya, Becky."  
  
"Get outta here."  
  
XXX 


	23. At Vittro's

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twenty-Three: At Vittro's  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
#-indicates thought  
  
^-indicates telepathic conversation  
  
XXX  
  
Jean supported her daughter's head on her shoulder, rocking every so slightly in her armchair. Cable sat picking his teeth opposite from her, eyes glued on hers. "What is it, Nathan?" she inquired gently.   
  
"Nothing." He shrugged. "Just thinking."  
  
"About?"  
  
"Read my mind," he muttered snidely.  
  
"Don't be sarcastic, it isn't becoming."  
  
"It's worked for me for the past fifty years."  
  
"I'm sure it has, but I don't want Quinn picking up your bad habits." She crooned, more to the child than to Nathan. Then, she looked up sharply. "Where's your father?"  
  
"I think he must be working. . .grading some tests or something. You want me to find him?"  
  
"No, no I'll do it. Take Quinn, will you?" she handed the baby to him before he could protest, and strode out of the room with brisk, no-nonsense strides. She passed the lounge, the rec room, and the kitchen, where Vision and Leech were hurrying to and from the dining room with plates and pots brimming with food. "Hey, you guys." She smiled warmly.  
  
"Hey Mrs. Summers," Leech quipped, and Artie grinned from ear-to-ear. "We've gotta set the table before Mr. Sinister gets down, otherwise he'll be hungry. He hasn't eaten since Friday!"  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yeah!" the lanky teenager replied quickly.  
  
"So, have you seen Mr. Summers around anywhere?"  
  
"Yeah. Mr. Warden and Miss Starsmore were going out and he made them stop."  
  
"What? Where are they?"  
  
"In his office, I think." Leech glanced uncertainly at Artie, who nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, in his office."  
  
"Thanks, Leech. I'll see you later," she patted his shoulder and headed for Scott's office, where, indeed, he was pacing nervously in front of Warden and Rebecca, every now and then shooting them evil looks. The moment Jean walked in, he stopped dead. "Hey, Scott. Are you going to join us for dinner?"  
  
"Just a moment, Jean. I'm a little busy here."  
  
"This is silly!" Rebecca stood up facing Jean. Her blue eyes were narrowed in vicious anger. "He says that since Chris and I are staying here for security that we have no right leaving the mansion!"  
  
"I'm placing them under house arrest, Jean. And it only makes sense." He sighed in frustration.  
  
"Whoa, hold on. You're placing them under WHAT?!"  
  
"House arrest. Jean, look at it this way, they're staying with us for protection, and how are we supposed to protect them when they're off on joyrides every night?"  
  
Warden pouted, but said nothing. "I'm sure you're being unreasonable, Scott." Jean said calmly. "They've stayed in since they've been here. I'm certain it wouldn't hurt anyone if they went out for a nice, peaceable night on the town."  
  
"Listen to your wife, Summers," Rebecca glowered. Scott fairly hissed back. Jean and Warden rolled their eyes simultaneously, then glanced at one another, and something passed between them.  
  
"You know what?" Jean smiled evilly, winked at Warden.  
  
"What?" Scott's eyes widened behind his glasses. "What're you doing, Jean?"  
  
"I think I'll take Mr. Warden out for dinner. You and Rebecca can resolve your differences while we're away. Whoever scores the most points, wins."  
  
"What?!" Rebecca and Scott demanded.  
  
"Let's go, Mr. Warden," Jean grinned at Rebecca's partner.  
  
"Please, call me Chris." He offered her his arm, and they went out together, chatting pleasantly.  
  
"NOW look at what you've done." Rebecca muttered. "You're such a bloody boneheaded arse."  
  
"I'M boneheaded!" he shrieked. "You just. . .you just. . .I can't believe this, you're like a jinx!" he shoved his hands through his hair, and sat down heavily. "All right, if we resolve this quickly, we can catch up with them, and we can both have our dinner in peace with the people we want to be with."  
  
"Why don't we simply see if we can catch up with them?"  
  
"Bad idea. Jean'll read my mind."  
  
"Oh. Of course." She sat down, folded her hands in her lap. "So what are our differences?"  
  
"We're both too hardheaded to see things straight." He said, barely above a whisper. "THAT'S what our problem is."  
  
"I suppose I SHOULD have paid better attention to your reasoning. I know you're only being a bastard because protocol requires it and you're concerned for Chris and my welfare."  
  
"And you HAVE been working hard with the Professor. Guess you've earned your down-time."  
  
"Good, now we can go after them. Any idea where they might be going?"  
  
"The Italian place right behind the mall."  
  
"Vittro's?"  
  
"Yeah. God, what a creepy name."  
  
"Shut up and let's go!" he grabbed his coat, jammed his arms into it, and realized Jean had telekinetically removed the keys to his Beamer. He glanced at Rebecca.  
  
"I'm on it," she fished into her pocket and retrieved the keys to her Jaguar. "Come on!" she shoved him out the door and down the hall. They squeezed into the two-seater and roared off into the night. As they sped along the highway, Rebecca reached over and nipped Scott's glasses off his face, covering his eyeballs with TK shields as she did so. He started and grabbed them back, hitched them on his shirt pocket.  
  
"Don't do that again," he pouted. "I don't like it when people touch my things."  
  
"Obviously." She rolled her eyes. "Just trying to help you see the world in its full spectrum of colour." She shrugged.  
  
"And I appreciate it. But. . ."  
  
"But you don't want to encourage familiarity within the ranks? I'm not an X-Man, Scott. And I thought you said we were friends."  
  
"We. . .we are."  
  
"And yet you seemed so eager to be rid of me a couple weeks ago."  
  
"When?"  
  
"When you got all red in the face at me down by Breakstone."  
  
"Oh, God, I was hoping you'd forget about that. I was being temperamental."  
  
"I'll say. You nearly clawed my bloody eyes out." She huffed. Scott turned red, and stared out the window. "Aren't you going to apologize?"  
  
"Give me a second to get used to the idea that I was wrong about something," he snarled, almost jokingly, but Rebecca caught the edge on his emotion, and reached for the radio.  
  
"What's your listening pleasure?"  
  
"Anything," he shrugged. She tapped number three on her radio's memory dial, and a classic rock station came on. Korn blared in through the speakers, and Scott chuckled.  
  
"God, I can't believe they still play this stuff!" he began mouthing the words to the song.  
  
"You like them? I'm shocked."  
  
"It's a funny story," he smiled, "Jubilee used to listen to them all the time, day and night, twenty-four seven. I always told her to turn it off, but that one time in 2018 when she did that swan dive off the Golden Gate Bridge. . .well, when she was in recovery, she was always having me play it, and of course, I did. And I sat with her through so many hours listening to them that I began to identify them with. . .well, with recovery and positive signs and. . .good stuff. Everything Jubilee is."  
  
"Huh."  
  
"So now, yeah. . .I guess I DO like them quite a bit." He hummed along for a few moments, then turned toward her. "I AM sorry." He said quickly. "I don't want you to think I don't want you around. It's a complication the X-Men maybe don't need, but nevertheless. . .it's nice to see a new face."  
  
"What a compliment," she replied dryly.  
  
"It's just that. . ."  
  
"Don't spoil my moment," she grinned. "A Summers just APOLOGIZED to me!"   
  
"I fail to see the humour."  
  
"It's not funny, it's momentous." She replied, eyes dramatically wide.  
  
"Don't fuck about, Rebecca. I really am and. . .here's the restaurant, turn left." She swerved, parked at the curb. "Go find Jean and Chris, I'll find a spot."  
  
"All right," he stepped out, flashed her an uncharacteristically charming smile. She swerved around and parked neatly beside the Beamer, but took five extra minutes to fix her makeup and hair. When she entered Vittro's she spotted Warden, Jean, and Scott sitting together at a corner table. She headed over, and was about to sit beside her partner when he tugged her down into his lap and gave her a loud smacking kiss on he mouth.   
  
"Hey, Becky, you're late. I was worried maybe someone kidnapped you," he winked at her look of consternation.  
  
  
  
^What the fucking hell are you doing, you sodding pillock?^ Rebecca demanded telepathically as she settled into her own chair.  
  
^Jean said I'm so metrosexual that if she'd seen me on the street she'd have thought I was gay.^  
  
^You ARE gay.^  
  
^Yeah, but I'm not out yet.^ he huffed, rolling his eyes.  
  
"So, what're we all having?" a waitress came round with her order-pad and smiled brightly at her four customers.  
  
"Could you possibly get me a chocolate martini?" Rebecca asked, and glanced over her menu. "And I'll have the linguine with oyster sauce."   
  
"Becky, you're driving," Warden nudged her shoulder.  
  
"No, YOU are." She said quickly, pressing the keys to the Jaguar into his palm.   
  
"So have the rest of you decided, or shall I come back?"  
  
"No, we're ready," Jean said, ordering vegetarian lasagna for herself, and grilled chicken with portabella mushrooms for Scott. Warden ordered a beef dish, and asked for another bottle of wine. The waitress disappeared, and the redheaded psionic leaned across the table toward Rebecca. "So, how has the Professor been doing? I hear you've been working him to the bone."  
  
"For someone so disciplined and allegedly mature, he complains far more than I'd expect." Rebecca smiled. "But he's made amazing headway. I've never seen anyone quite so dedicated to any sort of recovery."  
  
"Interesting. I'm sorry I haven't been more help. It's just with Quinn and everything. . ."  
  
"No, I think this one-on-one training is really streamlining his consciousness into the future. He's so eager to control his power, to continue to be what your teams need."  
  
"Maybe we shouldn't be discussing the X-Men here, Rebecca," Scott said quickly. "Sorry, it's just that this is a public place, and anyone might be listening."  
  
"You're right," she replied. "I apologize."   
  
They made small talk until their plates arrived, and then dug quickly into the food. "I've got to ask," Warden finally said, "What's it like to have such high-risk jobs and then suddenly become parents?"  
  
Jean laughed, nearly choking on her food. Scott shrugged. "It's strange. I mean, you know we have what, four other children from alternate dimensions, but we've never really experienced raising a child together. . .from birth, that is. At least we don't have to worry about a college fund." He chuckled.   
  
"And why's that?" Warden wrinkled his nose.  
  
"Well, Harvard has a buy two get one free policy these days, since their admission fees have gone through the roof. Nathan sent himself there, but we're the same family, so there's one option, but it's highly possible that we're just going to have her attend Xavier. She has a very strong X-gene, or so both Hank and. . .Dr. Essex say."  
  
"Natty's got to be right," Rebecca said. "He isolated mine before I was three years old, and with the leaps and bounds technology has made in the past thirty years, there's practically no limit to what you can detect as early as a month into the pregnancy."  
  
"Really?" Jean leant on her elbows, stabbed her fork at the other woman to punctuate her sentence. "I always wondered about that. So how early DID Essex. . .pick you up?"  
  
"I was about two and a half when he took me from my parents. And Jono, of course." She shrugged.   
  
"And you left him when you married Creed?" Scott said, "At sixteen?"  
  
"That's right." She glanced at Jean, who looked mildly uncomfortable. "So what're your plans, then? Are you taking a sabbatical or what?"  
  
"From work? Oh, definitely. I think I'll just retire early. Or something. I don't want to put myself in that kind of danger anymore. For Quinn, you know. What about your plans, Rebecca? I mean, you're getting into your early to mid-thirties. By the time I was your age, we'd been married for close to five years." She smiled at her husband.  
  
"Well, I already did the marriage thing, and it didn't really work for me."  
  
"You were married to Creed. He's not exactly Prince Charming."  
  
"If you'd believe it, I'd tell you that he was a great husband in most ways. He was always quite affectionate, and careful of my feelings. He's never been a chauvinist, so I certainly wasn't repressed. It would've been a wonderful relationship, I've no doubt, had I not been so young, and had he done a little more romancing before we made it official."  
  
"I can imagine," Jean rolled her eyes. "So you're sort of coasting along?"  
  
"I suppose. Our business," she touched Warden's arm, "is doing very well, and we've already considerable nest eggs saved up. If we wanted, we could retire and bask on Caribbean beaches for the rest of our lives, but we're. . ."  
  
"Too much in love with adrenaline," Warden supplied.  
  
"Exactly. Absolute adrenaline junkies. And we like the business, it affords us good financial security to have our names constantly popping up in Merc's Quarterly."  
  
"Are you serious?" Scott snorted derisively. "There's a tri-monthly magazine for mercenaries?"  
  
"Oh, yeah! You can pick it up at any of the Hubs. They're a couple hundred apiece, but oh, the classifieds!" Warden sighed.  
  
"You're such a bloody tech-nerd," his partner sighed. "They sell old pieces of decimated robots and the like for a pittance, and he seems to think that by shelling out three hundred dollars for a fifty-page newsletter he's saving anything."   
  
"I just happen to BE saving us quite the sum!" Warden sniffed haughtily. Rebecca giggled, sipped her drink.   
  
"Well, at least you know we have a good co-op relationship."  
  
Jean and Scott exchanged terrified looks. "If this is what you define 'co-operative,' I don't want to know what enemies are like."  
  
XXX 


	24. Speech

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twenty-Four: Speech  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fan fiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero, zip, nada profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
REVIEW, PLEAAAAASE! PRETTY PLEASSSE! If you liked it, tell friends! I'll write more if you review! My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
# - indicates thought  
  
^ - indicates telepathic conversation  
  
~ - indicates that a language other than English is being conversed in.  
  
XXX  
  
Jono wiped beads of sweat from his forehead as he walked into the Danger Room Observation Booth. ^So 'ow'd I do, Nate?^ he grinned at X-Man, who pulled up two highlighted points from the session.  
  
"You did very well, but there are a couple instances where you didn't protect your right side."  
  
^Yeh, yer right. That bloody Phalanx bastard wouldn't 'ave 'ad a chance if my mind 'ad been on th' game.^  
  
"You didn't seem to be concentrating very well on the exercise." Nate Grey reflected, tugging on his wispy goatee. "You seem emotionally preoccupied."  
  
^Jus' a bit.^  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
^Sure,^ the Englishman grabbed the cold compress his team leader offered and applied it to his face and neck. ^I feel. . .jussa tad confused,^ he confided.  
  
"Come on, Jon, we've known each other for upwards of twenty years. You've gotta give me a little more to work with than that." Nate rolled his eyes. "Wait, lemme guess. It's either about Rebecca or Jubilee."  
  
^Mostly Jubilee, if you'd believe it.^ Jono blew a curl of psionic flame out of his mouth. ^I think it's marvelous, wot Beck's doin' fer th' Prof an' all, an' we've been talking a lot more. . .well, we've been talking period, an' that's a definite improvement. I mean, we're sibs, but it don't automatically follow that we'd get along so well. Yer know?^  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean." X-Man rolled his eyes as he referred to his nearly non-existent relationship with his elder brother, Cable.  
  
^I mean. . .a while ago, Jubilee an' I 'ad this conversation.^ Jono hesitated. ^I mean, it was late, an' I wasn't thinkin' too clearly, but basically I told 'er I wanted ter be t'gether again.^  
  
"What?!" Nate leant forward, eyes wide.  
  
^Yer know I love 'er. Hell, I guess everyone does. It's not much'v a secret.^  
  
"Yeah, but I thought you and that girl. . .what'shername again?"  
  
^Wot you talkin' about, I 'aven't 'ad a date in a month!^  
  
"Havily. . .that's her name. Weren't you getting serious about her?"  
  
^Riddle me this, scab-of-th'-earth, jus' 'ow'm I supposed ter get serious over someone when I ain't over Jubilee yet?^ Jono demanded, rolling his eyes. ^Thing is, I'm mad about 'er.^  
  
"So what did you talk about that night?"  
  
^I told 'er I wanted ter be wif 'er, an' she said she'd think about it.^  
  
"Ouch." Nate winced. Jono's eyes narrowed.  
  
^No kiddin', yer smart-mouthed pillock.^  
  
"What're you going to do about it? You KNOW she's never going to give you an answer."  
  
^That's not really wot bothers me, though.^  
  
"Well, if THAT'S not what bothers you, you're a strange, sick man."  
  
Ignoring him, Starsmore continued, ^Wot bothers me is that she's gonna bottle up woteva feelings she's got. It's not so much not bein' wif 'er, it's not knowin' whether I 'ad a second shot'r not.^  
  
"Why the hell did you break it off, again?"  
  
^SHE did, not me.^  
  
"Yeah. So why did SHE?"  
  
^Scared o' th' commitment, I guess. She figures she's still bloody fifteen years old, an' can pick an' choose before she gets old.^  
  
"You're BOTH getting old."  
  
^We all are, yer stupid bastard.^ Jono rolled his eyes, and stood up. ^S'pose that pretty much sums it up.^  
  
"So you've told her all of this? How you feel?"  
  
^I ain't about ter put th' squeeze on 'er, Nate,^ he retorted ^She'll probably make a break f'r it, an' I don't wanna lose 'er.^ Jono put his face in his hands, and took a deep breath. When he looked up, he noticed Nathan staring at him. ^Wot now?^  
  
"You just. . .you just. . .BREATHED!"  
  
"I. . .I wot?" Jonothon's mouth hung open, and he took another tentative pull of air. "I breathed." He whispered, his words no longer staggered. "I can talk without stutterin'." He let out a bark of laughter, and grabbed Nathan up in a swirling bear hug. "I can TALK!" he screamed, and whooped loudly. "I've got ter go figure out wot I'm gonna say ter Jubilee."  
  
"I thought you just said you didn't know what to do?"  
  
"It's a sign, Nate! A sign that I'm s'posed ter be wif 'er."  
  
"I don't. . ."  
  
"Of course yer don't understand. Oh, God, I can talk, I can BREATHE!" Jono let out a short bark of laughter and rushed out of the room. Nate Grey propped his face up on a hand and rolled his eyes.  
  
"I hope he doesn't screw things up TOO badly."  
  
XXX  
  
"This is bollocks, you know," Rebecca muttered under her breath as she shoved Warden into the elevator. "You completely smashed."  
  
"Ssho yoo tol' me when we left Viddo's. Veegdo's. Veeeggg..."  
  
"Stop it." She hissed, and jabbed a near-concussive blast of TK into the elevator buttons. As the machine brought them up to the dorm level, Chris began to hum gently. "Shut up."  
  
"Shuddub." He retorted, his features creasing into a half-crazed expression, his blue eyes widening. She glared, and he burst out laughing. "Taegg...tayyy...tayge....tayyyyyke." he nodded several times, and closed his eyes for a moment. 'Tayyke me to shheee Jaaa...Jean-Baul."  
  
"Jean-Paul? You sure he'll be all right with me dumping you on him while you're this incapacitated?" she quirked a brow.  
  
"Eeee will beee fiiine." Chris slurred, "I 'ave dooo...goo...tooooo abologiiiize."  
  
"Apologize? What for?"  
  
"Fucking 'im silleeee." Warden giggled. "Annnd then nnnnot calllllling." He hiccupped, and giggled again.  
  
"You're not going anywhere NEAR Beaubier," Rebecca muttered as the elevator doors swung open. "I'm taking you to my room."  
  
"I KNEW it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Yoo...yoo wannnd...wannnt mee all to yourshelf!"  
  
"Yeah, that's right." She hauled him down the corridor. "Now shut it before I have to shut you down." She shoved him into her room, and he fell onto her bed.  
  
"Yoo wouldn't!" he drew himself up, but then faltered a little, and turned green. "Oh, shit." He rushed into her bathroom, threw the toilet bowl open, and emptied his two hundred dollar dinner into it. She headed after him, grabbing a washcloth from the linen closet. She saturated it with cold water in the sink and pressed it to the back of his neck.  
  
"Damn it, Warden." She dabbed gently. "I hate it when you're sick."  
  
"Me too," he sniffled, tearing a piece of tissue paper off the roll and wiping his mouth. "I'm gonna havva hangover toooomorrowww, right?"  
  
"Bingo. Unless you take one of my orange pills."  
  
"Gimmee orange pill Beckee." He slurred. "Didda good job driving 'ome didn' I?" he grinned when she returned with the bottle of over-the-counter hangover prevention pills.  
  
"You didn't drive home. I did. With two chocolate martinis in me. Aren't you proud of me, my darling, drunk, techno-savvy partner?"  
  
"Verrrry. Verrry proud, my Beckee." He wiped his nose across his sleeve and laughed soggily. "I wanna fuck Jean-Paul tonight. Verry horny. Love'im. Richard...love'im. Gotta get backkat 'im. Bastard broke m'heart."  
  
Rebecca winced. During dinner, all Chris' thoughts had been centred on the food and their company, and she thought he had forgotten about his erstwhile partner. "Damn it, Chris. You've gotta either go after him, or let him go. He's a fucking bastard."  
  
"I'm lettin' go. Jus' wanna mourn a bit." He shrugged. "Lemme cry onyer shoulder?" his big, blue eyes, glazed as they were with the alcohol he'd consumed, latched onto hers despairingly, and she stifled a sob.  
  
"Of course, Chris. Of course." He scooted away from the toilet, and curled up in her arms, laying his golden head on her shoulder like a little boy, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him, rocking him to and fro, like a mother would.  
  
XXX 


	25. Rings and Things

Ma Soleil  
  
Chapter Twenty-Five: Rings and Things  
  
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fan fiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero, zip, nada profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.  
  
REVIEW, PLEAAAAASE! PRETTY PLEASSSE! If you liked it, tell friends! I'll write more if you review! My e-mail address is seraphtaurusthekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.  
  
# - indicates thought  
  
- indicates telepathic conversation  
  
- indicates that a language other than English is being conversed in.  
  
XXX  
  
Flashback: Seventeen Years Ago  
  
Victor turned in bed, and his nose came in contact with warm skin that smelt of suntan lotion and salt. He opened his narrow amber eyes, and a smile floated over his lips. Oh, yeah. Her. He pulled himself into a sitting position as his wife stirred and curled into him, her arms tightening around his torso. She wasn't really little, even compared to him, he reflected. She was long and golden, with a build that was unusual but magnificent on a woman. He watched her flame-tipped lashes flutter and her eyes dart to and fro beneath her lids, and wondered what dreams she might be having. Then, he glanced at the motel room clock and shook her awake.  
  
When her glacial blue eyes snapped open, he nearly winced. She may be beautiful while in repose, but she was, to put things mildly, a handful when awake. "Hey, darlin'." He murmured, in an attempt to begin the day on a positive note. She hissed at him and sprang out of bed, dragging a sheet with her, which she shook off at the bathroom door, then disappeared through it. Within moments, the sound of the shower turning on could be heard. He rose and headed after her. "Beck, darlin', we've got a plane ta catch. Hurry up, all right? I wanna shower too."  
  
"Why don't you just shower with me, you bloody lug?" she growled, and Victor's brows headed for his hairline. Though she was quite the wildcat in the dark, he'd never seen her nude in any sort of light before, but had chalked it up to late adolescent modesty. Hell, she was young. He shrugged and opened the door. She was standing at the mirror, all five feet and ten inches of her, with her long hair of spun gold splashing down her back and over her shoulders. Victor touched her hand, and she started, drawing back from him as though he were a spider.  
  
"What's wrong?" he inquired, and she turned to face him.  
  
"Nothing's wrong, Vic," she murmured, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself into his body and burying her face in his shoulder. "Nothing's ever been wrong." She sighed, and it seemed to him that there was a note of wistfulness in that sigh. "Can I ask you something, though?"  
  
"Sure, darlin'."  
  
"Don't call me darlin' anymore." She turned her head slightly, and he could feel her mouth open and rest on his jugular vein, her teeth scraping gently over his skin. "I hate it; it gives you an excuse to objectify me...I'm not Rebecca to you, I'm just 'darlin'."  
  
"All right," he shrugged. "I guess I can do that." She pulled back a little, and he pressed his lips to hers gently. "Ya know I'm...lookin' out for ya, right?"  
  
Her eyes narrowed, and she loosed her hold on him, stepping away. "Yeah. Whatever." She stepped under the still-flowing stream of water in the shower and turned her back to him.  
  
XXX  
  
Present Day:  
  
Victor scratched his head. Women. Never could understand them. It seemed to him that at about the age of thirteen they suddenly morphed from delightful children into indefinably stubborn, willful, estrogen-fit-throwing creatures. He sighed, and wondered what it was that got him tangled up with so many powerful women, when he was, for all intents and purposes, relatively simple in habits and needs. Either Fate had a terribly ironic sense of humour, or powerful women felt as though they needed someone to "tame," to display their supremacy over the male sex. Well, what was he if not an animal?  
  
"Yer a bit'v a cad, fer one," a cheery British voice snapped Victor away from his thoughts.  
  
"Hey, Starsmore. What're you doin' rootlin' around in my head?" he demanded.  
  
"You were broadcastin'." Jono slumped down beside the big feral on the couch. "So wot's botherin' yer? Monet not puttin' out?" Victor narrowed his eyes and was about to make a snap about tearing his disrespectful throat out when he realized that the other man had known Monet for twice as long as he had.  
  
"Nah. Just worried about Beck."  
  
"Wot's wrong wif my sister?" Jono instantly seemed concerned, his brown eyes deepening.  
  
"Nothin'. It's just that...I mean, the merc business..."  
  
"Bullshit, Creed. Don't feed me that. Bloody hell, she eat twenty o' you alive an' still 'av room fer dessert."  
  
"Sure, that might be true, but I'm not so sure about this Warden sap."  
  
"He's fine. Not a sap at all. She trusts him, an' yer trust 'er. 'Sides, in't it my job ter be worried about me own sis?"  
  
"Just habit, that's all."  
  
"Well stick ter yer own girlfriend. An' I'll be watchin' yer round M, as well. She's a tough girl but you hurt 'er an' I'll tear yer throat out. Then Jubilee'll gouge yer eyes out, then Skin'll tear yer fat head off, then Artie..."  
  
"I get the point, Starsmore. It's good o' ya ta look out fer Monet, but I think I'm doin' a fine job."  
  
"So when're yer gonna tug that fat ring out'n pop th' question?"  
  
Victor's hand shot out and grasped Jono by the throat. "Shut UP! Ya wanna go on TV an' just tell th' world? I'm waitin' fer the right time. Hell, we've only been tagether fer six months yet."  
  
As his windpipe was otherwise occupied, Jono telepathed. But yer love 'er?  
  
"Course. Why th' hell...look, I'll do it when I know she'll say yes." He shook Jono once, and let him go. "I ain't takin' th' chance o' her sayin' it ain't right yet."  
  
"I guess I know 'ow yeh feel." He stood up, dusted his hands over his jeans. "Well, I ain't too disosed ter gettin' strangled, an' I've said my piece, but if yer 'urt Monet..." his quick grin, savage and toothy, was chilling enough to make Victor raise a brow. "Yer know she's like me sister, too." Jono turned and walked away.  
  
"Well fuck." Victor groaned. "Just glad he wasn't around when Beck'n I were tagether."  
  
XXX  
  
Jubilee slumped into her office chair, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. "Good God," She muttered, breath coming out in a low hiss. "Sometimes I hate my work."  
  
"Sometimes I 'ate meself." Jonothon grinned, sticking his head through the door. "Knock, knock."  
  
"Hey," she murmured weakly. "Why do you hate yourself, Jono?"  
  
"Cause I'm about ter add a lil' more stress ter yer day, I am.'  
  
"God damn it, I don't have the energy to swear at you well."  
  
"I'll consider meself chewed out," he grinned lopsidedly and settled into the chair in front of her desk. "Yer look really tired, luv."  
  
"I am."  
  
"That's too bad."  
  
"Why?" she snapped. "Look, if you need a drill instructor, go find Nate. You've been practicing with him for the past few weeks, after all."  
  
"Isn't that. I 'ad these reservations at Grill Master, but I guess I'll just 'ave ter cancel."  
  
"Is that your twisted way of asking me out, Jono?"  
  
"Guess it is." He grinned hopefully, and was rewarded with a small book thrown at him. "That a yes?"  
  
"Not tonight," she rubbed her hand over her forehead. "I'm too tired."  
  
"Then lemme read yer a book by th' fire an' watch yer drop off ter sleep." He reached across the desk and took her hand in his.  
  
"I'm too tired to deal with you right now." She sighed, and swatted him away. "Just lemme sink into oblivion myself."  
  
"Fair enough," he stood and scrubbed a hand through his tousled hair. "But I'm takin' this as a raincheck. We're goin' out fer burgers within th' week whether yer like it or not."  
  
"What if I wanted seafood?"  
  
"On'y after a burger." He grinned, winked, and turned for the door.  
  
"Jono," she called before he left.  
  
"Yep?"  
  
"Wanna take in some re-runs of the OC and laugh at how ridiculous and idealized and unrealistic everything is?"  
  
"Nah." He grinned in satisfaction as her eyes fell. "Th' OC gives me headaches. Let's watch some slasher films. They gimme the warm fuzzies." She grinned, and he paced back to her side, tugged her one-handed from her chair, bringing her body flush against his. Her cheeks reddened, and he felt something twist in his abdomen. Hesitantly, he lowered his mouth to her forehead. "I 'ope yer headache goes away, luv."  
  
She snarled at him. "Don't go gettin' all mushy on me, Starsmore. It's just a damn slasher film."  
  
He laughed. "Hey, I got me date, didn't I?" she hissed in reply and cuffed him over the head.  
  
XXX 


End file.
